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HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY. 


THE   STUDY   DOOR 


WAKE-ROBIN 


BY 


JOHN  BURROUGHS 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

,  Cambrib0e 


Copyright,  1871,  1876,  1895  and  1899, 
BY  JOHN  BURROUGHS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


676 


PKEFACE  TO  FIEST  EDITION 

THIS  is  mainly  a  book  about  the  Birds,  or  more 
properly  an  invitation  to  the  study  of  Ornithology, 
and  the  purpose  of  the  author  will  be  carried  out  in 
proportion  as  it  awakens  and  stimulates  the  interest 
of  the  reader  in  this  branch  of  Natural  History. 

Though  written  less  in  the  spirit  of  exact  science 
than  with  the  freedom  of  love  and  old  acquaintance, 
yet  I  have  in  no  instance  taken  liberties  with  facts, 
or  allowed  my  imagination  to  influence  me  to  the 
extent  of  giving  a  false  impression  or  a  wrong  color- 
ing. I  have  reaped  my  harvest  more  in  the  woods 
than  in  the  study ;  what  I  offer,  in  fact,  is  a  careful 
and  conscientious  record  of  actual  observations  and 
experiences,  and  is  true  as  it  stands  written,  every 
word  of  it.  But  what  has  interested  me  most  in 
Ornithology  is  the  pursuit,  the  chase,  the  discovery  j 
that  part  of  it  which  is  akin  to  hunting,  fishing,  and 
wild  sports,  and  which  I  could  carry  with  me  in  my 
eye  and  ear  wherever  I  went. 

I  cannot  answer  with  much  confidence  the  poet's 
inquiry, 

"  Hast  thou  named  all  the  birds  without  a  gun  ?  " 


VI  PREFACE   TO  FIRST   EDITION 

but  I  have  done  what  I  could  to  bring  home  the 
"  river  and  sky  "  with  the  sparrow  I  heard  "  sing- 
ing at  dawn  on  the  alder  bough."  In  other  words, 
I  have  tried  to  present  a  live  bird,  —  a  bird  in  the 
woods  or  the  fields,  —  with  the  atmosphere  and 
associations  of  the  place,  and  not  merely  a  stuffed 
and  labeled  specimen. 

A  more  specific  title  for  the  volume  would  have 
suited  me  better ;  but  not  being  able  to  satisfy  my- 
self in  this  direction,  I  cast  about  for  a  word  thor- 
oughly in  the  atmosphere  and  spirit  of  the  book, 
which  I  hope  I  have  found  in  "  Wake-Robin,"  the 
common  name  of  the  white  Trillium,  which  blooms 
in  all  our  woods,  and  which  marks  the  arrival  of  all 
the  birds. 


CONTENTS 


INTRODUCTION »       .     ix 

I.  THE  RETURN  OF  THE  BIRDS 1 

II.  IN  THE  HEMLOCKS 37 

III.  THE  ADIRONDACKS 69 

IV.  BIRDS'-NESTS 93 

V.  SPRING  AT  THE  CAPITAL 127 

VI.  BIRCH  BROWSINGS 157 

VII.  THE  BLUEBIRD 189 

VIII.  THE  INVITATION  .       .       .       .       .       .       .       .201 

INDEX        .       ••••••..       227 


INTRODUCTION 

IN  coming  before  the  public  with  a  newly  made 
edition  of  my  writings,  what  can  I  say  to  my  reader 
at  this  stage  of  our  acquaintance  that  will  lead  to 
a  better  understanding  between  us  ?  Probably  no- 
thing. We  understand  each  other  very  well  already. 
I  have  offered  myself  as  his  guide  to  certain  matters 
out  of  doors,  and  to  a  few  matters  indoors,  and  he 
has  accepted  me  upon  my  own  terms,  and  has,  on 
the  whole,  been  better  pleased  with  me  than  I  had 
any  reason  to  expect.  For  this  I  am  duly  grateful ; 
why  say  more  ?  Yet,  now  that  I  am  upon  my  feet, 
so  to  speak,  and  palaver  is  the  order,  I  will  keep  on 
a  few  minutes  longer. 

It  is  now  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century  since  my 
first  book,  "  Wake-Robin,"  was  published.  I  have 
lived  nearly  as  many  years  in  the  world  as  I  had 
lived  when  I  wrote  its  principal  chapters.  Other 
volumes  have  followed,  and  still  others.  When 
asked  how  many  there  are,  I  often  have  to  stop 
and  count  them  up.  I  suppose  the  mother  of  a 
large  family  does  not  have  to  count  up  her  children 
to  say  how  many  there  are.  She  sees  their  faces 
all  before  her.  It  is  said  of  certain  savage  tribes 


X  INTRODUCTION 

who  cannot  count  above  five,  and  yet  who  own 
flocks  and  herds,  that  every  native  knows  when  he 
has  got  all  his  own  cattle,  not  hy  counting,  but  by 
remembering  each  one  individually. 

The  savage  is  with  his  herds  daily ;  the  mother 
has  the  love  of  her  children  constantly  in  her  heart ; 
but  when  one's  book  goes  forth  from  him,  in  a  sense 
it  never  returns.  It  is  like  the  fruit  detached  from 
the  bough.  And  yet  to  sit  down  and  talk  of  one's 
books  as  a  father  might  talk  of  his  sons,  who  had 
left  his  roof  and  gone  forth  to  make  their  own  way 
in  the  world,  is  not  an  easy  matter.  The  author's 
relation  to  his  book  is  a  little  more  direct  and  per- 
sonal, after  all,  more  a  matter  of  will  and  choice, 
than  a  father's  relation  to  his  child.  The  book 
does  not  change,  and,  whatever  its  fortunes,  it  re- 
mains to  the  end  what  its  author  made  it.  The 
son  is  an  evolution  out  of  a  long  line  of  ancestry, 
and  one's  responsibility  for  this  or  that  trait  is  often 
very  slight ;  but  the  book  is  an  actual  transcript  of 
his  mind,  and  is  wise  or  foolish  according  as  he  made 
it  so.  Hence  I  trust  my  reader  will  pardon  me  if  I 
shrink  from  any  discussion  of  the  merits  or  demerits 
of  these  intellectual  children  of  mine,  or  indulge 
in  any  very  confidential  remarks  with  regard  to 
them. 

I  cannot  bring  myself  to  think  of  my  books  as 
"  works,"  because  so  little  "  work  "  has  gone  to  the 
making  of  them.  It  has  all  been  play.  I  have 


INTRODUCTION  XI 

gone  a-fishing,  or  camping,  or  canoeing,  and  new 
literary  material  has  been  the  result.  My  corn  has 
grown  while  I  loitered  or  slept.  The  writing  of 
the  book  was  only  a  second  and  finer  enjoyment 
of  my  holiday  in  the  fields  or  woods.  Not  till  the 
writing  did  it  really  seem  to  strike  in  and  become 
part  of  me. 

A  friend  of  mine,  now  an  old  man,  who  spent 
his  youth  in  the  woods  of  northern  Ohio,  and  who 
has  written  many  books,  says,  "  I  never  thought  of 
writing  a  book  till  my  self-exile,  and  then  only  to 
reproduce  my  old-time  life  to  myself."  The  writ- 
ing probably  cured  or  alleviated  a  sort  of  homesick- 
ness. Such  in  a  great  measure  has  been  my  own 
case.  My  first  book,  "  Wake-Kobin,"  was  written 
while  I  was  a  government  clerk  in  Washington.  It 
enabled  me  to  live  over  again  the  days  I  had  passed 
with  the  birds  and  in  the  scenes  of  my  youth.  I 
wrote  the  book  sitting  at  a  desk  in  front  of  an  iron 
wall.  I  was  the  keeper  of  a  vault  in  which  many 
millions  of  bank-notes  were  stored.  During  my 
long  periods  of  leisure  I  took  refuge  in  my  pen. 
How  my  mind  reacted  from  the  iron  wall  in  front 
of  me,  and  sought  solace  in  memories  of  the  birds 
and  of  summer  fields  and  woods !  Most  of  the 
chapters  of  "Winter  Sunshine"  were  written  at 
the  same  desk.  The  sunshine  there  referred  to  is 
of  a  richer  quality  than  is  found  in  New  York  or 
New  England. 


Xii  INTRODUCTION 

Since  I  left  Washington  in  1873,  instead  of  an 
iron  wall  in  front  of  my  desk,  I  have  had  a  large 
window  that  overlooks  the  Hudson  and  the  wooded 
heights  beyond,  and  I  have  exchanged  the  vault  for 
a  vineyard.  Probably  my  mind  reacted  more  vigor- 
ously from  the  former  than  it  does  from  the  latter. 
The  vineyard  winds  its  tendrils  around  me  and 
detains  me,  and  its  loaded  trellises  are  more  pleas- 
ing to  me  than  the  closets  of  greenbacks. 

The  only  time  there  is  a  suggestion  of  an  iron 
wall  in  front  of  me  is  in  winter,  when  ice  and  snow 
have  blotted  out  the  landscape,  and  I  find  that  it  is 
in  this  season  that  my  mind  dwells  most  fondly 
upon  my  favorite  themes.  Winter  drives  a  man 
back  upon  himself,  and  tests  his  powers  of  self-enter- 
tainment. 

Do  such  books  as  mine  give  a  wrong  impression 
of  Nature,  and  lead  readers  to  expect  more  from  a 
walk  or  a  camp  in  the  woods  than  they  usually  get  ? 
I  have  a  few  times  had  occasion  to  think  so.  I  am 
not  always  aware  myself  how  much  pleasure  I  have 
had  in  a  walk  till  I  try  to  share  it  with  my  reader. 
The  heat  of  composition  brings  out  the  color  and 
the  flavor.  We  must  not  forget  the  illusions  of  all 
art.  If  my  reader  thinks  he  does  not  get  from  Na- 
ture what  I  get  from  her,  let  me  remind  him  that 
he  can  hardly  know  what  he  has  got  till  he  defines 
it  to  himself  as  I  do,  and  throws  about  it  the  witch- 
ery of  words.  Literature  does  not  grow  wild  in 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

the  woods.  Every  artist  does  something  more  than 
copy  Nature ;  more  comes  out  in  his  account  than 
goes  into  the  original  experience. 

Most  persons  think  the  bee  gets  honey  from  the 
flowers,  but  she  does  not:  honey  is  a  product  of 
the  bee ;  it  is  the  nectar  of  the  flowers  with  the  bee 
added.  What  the  bee  gets  from  the  flower  is  sweet 
water :  this  she  puts  through  a  process  of  her  own 
and  imparts  to  it  her  own  quality ;  she  reduces  the 
water  and  adds  to  it  a  minute  drop  of  formic  acid. 
It  is  this  drop  of  herself  that  gives  the  delicious 
sting  to  her  sweet.  The  bee  is  therefore  the  type 
of  the  true  poet,  the  true  artist.  Her  product 
always  reflects  her  environment,  and  it  reflects  some- 
thing her  environment  knows  not  of.  We  taste  the 
clover,  the  thyme,  the  linden,  the  sumac,  and  we 
also  taste  something  that  has  its  source  in  none  of 
these  flowers. 

The  literary  naturalist  does  not  take  liberties 
with  facts ;  facts  are  the  flora  upon  which  he  lives. 
The  more  and  the  fresher  the  facts  the  better.  I 
can  do  nothing  without  them,  but  I  must  give  them 
my  own  flavor,,  I  must  impart  to  them  a  quality 
which  heightens  and  intensifies  them. 

To  interpret  Nature  is  not  to  improve  upon  her : 
it  is  to  draw  her  out ;  it  is  to  have  an  emotional 
intercourse  with  her,  absorb  her,  and  reproduce  her 
tinged  with  the  colors  of  the  spirit. 

If  I  name  every  bird  I  see  in  my  walk,  describe 


XIV  INTRODUCTION 

its  color  and  ways,  etc.,  give  a  lot  of  facts  or  details 
about  the  bird,  it  is  doubtful  if  my  reader  is  inter- 
ested. But  if  I  relate  the  bird  in  some  way  to 
human  life,  to  my  own  life,  —  show  what  it  is  to 
me  and  what  it  is  in  the  landscape  and  the  season, 
— then  do  I  give  my  reader  a  live  bird  and  not  a 
labeled  specimen. 

J.  B. 


WAKE-ROBIN 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE   BIRDS 

PKING  in  our  northern  climate  may  fairly  be 
said  to  extend  from  the  middle  of  March  to  the 
middle  of  June.  At  least,  the  vernal  tide  continues 
to  rise  until  the  latter  date,  and  it  is  not  till  after 
the  summer  solstice  that  the  shoots  and  twigs  begin 
to  harden  and  turn  to  wood,  or  the  grass  to  lose 
any  of  its  freshness  and  succulency. 

It  is  this  period  that  marks  the  return  of  the 
birds,  —  one  or  two  of  the  more  hardy  or  half -domes- 
ticated species,  like  the  song  sparrow  and  the  blue- 
bird, usually  arriving  in  March,  while  the  rarer  and 
more  brilliant  wood-birds  bring  up  the  procession  in 
June.  But  each  stage  of  the  advancing  season 
gives  prominence  to  certain  species,  as  to  certain 
flowers.  The  dandelion  tells  me  when  to  look  for 
the  swallow,  the  dogtooth  violet  when  to  expect 
the  wood-thrush,  and  when  I  have  found  the  wake- 
robin  in  bloom  I  know  the  season  is  fairly  inaugu- 
rated. With  me  this  flower  is  associated,  not 
merely  with  the  awakening  of  Robin,  for  he  has 


2  WAKE-KOBIN 

been  awake  some  weeks,  but  with  the  universal 
awakening  and  rehabilitation  of  nature. 

Yet  the  coming  and  going  of  the  birds  is  more  or 
less  a  mystery  and  a  surprise.  We  go  out  in  the 
morning,  and  no  thrush  or  vireo  is  to  be  heard;  we 
go  out  again,  and  every  tree  and  grove  is  musical; 
yet  again,  and  all  is  silent.  Who  saw  them  come  ? 
Who  saw  them  depart  1 

This  pert  little  winter  wren,  for  instance,  darting 
in  and  out  the  fence,  diving  under  the  rubbish  here 
and  coming  up  yards  away,  —  how  does  he  manage 
with  those  little  circular  wings  to  compass  degrees 
and  zones,  and  arrive  always  in  the  nick  of  time  1 
Last  August  I  saw  him  in  the  remotest  wilds  of 
the  Adirondacks,  impatient  and  inquisitive  as  usual ; 
a  few  weeks  later,  on  the  Potomac,  I  was  greeted 
by  the  same  hardy  little  busybody.  Does  he  travel 
by  easy  stages  from  bush  to  bush  and  from  wood  to 
wood?  or  has  that  compact  little  body  force  and 
courage  to  brave  the  night  and  the  upper  air,  and 
so  achieve  leagues  at  one  pull? 

And  yonder  bluebird  with  the  earth  tinge  on  his 
breast  and  the  sky  tinge  on  his  back,  —  did  he 
come  down  out  of  heaven  on  that  bright  March 
morning  when  he  told  us  so  softly  and  plaintively 
that,  if  we  pleased,  spring  had  come?  Indeed, 
there  is  nothing  in  the  return  of  the  birds  more 
curious  and  suggestive  than  in  the  first  appearance, 
or  rumors  of  the  appearance,  of  this  little  blue-coat. 
The  bird  at  first  seems  a  mere  wandering  voice  in 
the  air:  one  hears  its  call  or  carol  on  some  bright 


THE  RETURN   OF   THE   BIRDS  3 

March  morning,  but  is  uncertain  of  its  source  or 
direction;  it  falls  like  a  drop  of  rain  when  no 
cloud  is  visible;  one  looks  and  listens,  but  to  no 
purpose.  The  weather  changes,  perhaps  a  cold 
snap  with  snow  comes  on,  and  it  may  be  a  week 
before  I  hear  the  note  again,  and  this  time  or  the 
next  perchance  see  the  bird  sitting  on  a  stake  in 
the  fence  lifting  his  wing  as  he  calls  cheerily  to  his 
mate.  Its  notes  now  become  daily  more  frequent; 
the  birds  multiply,  and,  flitting  from  point  to  point, 
call  and  warble  more  confidently  and  gleefully. 
Their  boldness  increases  till  one  sees  them  hovering 
with  a  saucy,  inquiring  air  about  barns  and  out- 
buildings, peeping  into  dove-cotes  and  stable  win- 
dows, inspecting  knotholes  and  pump-trees,  intent 
only  on  a  place  to  nest.  They  wage  war  against 
robins  and  wrens,  pick  quarrels  with  swallows,  and 
seem  to  deliberate  for  days  over  the  policy  of  tak- 
ing forcible  possession  of  one  of  the  mud-houses  of 
the  latter.  But  as  the  season  advances  they  drift 
more  into  the  background.  Schemes  of  conquest 
which  they  at  first  seemed  bent  upon  are  aban- 
doned, and  they  settle  down  very  quietly  in  their 
old  quarters  in  remote  stumpy  fields. 

Not  long  after  the  bluebird  comes  the  robin, 
sometimes  in  March,  but  in  most  of  the  Northern 
States  April  is  the  month  of  the  robin.  In  large 
numbers  they  scour  the  fields  and  groves.  You 
hear  their  piping  in  the  meadow,  in  the  pasture,  on 
the  hillside.  Walk  in  the  woods,  and  the  dry 
leaves  rustle  with  the  whir  of  their  wings,  the  air 


4  WAKE-EOBIN 

is  vocal  with  their  cheery  call.  In  excess  of  joy 
and  vivacity,  they  run,  leap,  scream,  chase  each 
other  through  the  air,  diving  and  sweeping  among 
the  trees  with  perilous  rapidity. 

In  that  free,  fascinating,  half-work  and  half-play 
pursuit,  —  sugar-making,  —  a  pursuit  which  still 
lingers  in  many  parts  of  New  York,  as  in  New 
England,  —  the  robin  is  one's  constant  companion. 
When  the  day  is  sunny  and  the  ground  bare,  you 
meet  him  at  all  points  and  hear  him  at  all  hours. 
At  sunset,  on  the  tops  of  the  tall  maples,  with  look 
heavenward,  and  in  a  spirit  of  utter  abandonment, 
he  carols  his  simple  strain.  And  sitting  thus  amid 
the  stark,  silent  trees,  above  the  wet,  cold  earth, 
with  the  chill  of  winter  still  in  the  air,  there  is  no 
fitter  or  sweeter  songster  in  the  whole  round  year. 
It  is  in  keeping  with  the  scene  and  the  occasion. 
How  round  and  genuine  the  notes  are,  and  how 
eagerly  our  ears  drink  them  in!  The  first  utter- 
ance, and  the  spell  of  winter  is  thoroughly  broken, 
and  the  remembrance  of  it  afar  off. 

Robin  is  one  of  the  most  native  and  democratic 
of  our  birds;  he  is  one  of  the  family,  and  seems 
much  nearer  to  us  than  those  rare,  exotic  visitants, 
as  the  orchard  starling  or  rose-breasted  grosbeak, 
with  their  distant,  high-bred  ways.  Hardy,  noisy, 
frolicsome,  neighborly,  and  domestic  in  his  habits, 
strong  of  wing  and  bold  in  spirit,  he  is  the  pioneer 
of  the  thrush  family,  and  well  worthy  of  the  finer 
artists  whose  coming  he  heralds  and  in  a  measure 
prepares  us  for. 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  BIRDS  5 

I  could  wish  Eobin  less  native  and  plebeian  in 
one  respect,  —  the  building  of  his  nest.  Its  coarse 
material  and  rough  masonry  are  creditable  neither 
to  his  skill  as  a  workman  nor  to  his  taste  as  an 
artist.  I  am  the  more  forcibly  reminded  of  his 
deficiency  in  this  respect  from  observing  yonder 
hummingbird's  nest,  which  is  a  marvel  of  fitness 
and  adaptation,  a  proper  setting  for  this  winged 
gem,  —  the  body  of  it  composed  of  a  white,  felt- 
like  substance,  probably  the  down  of  some  plant  or 
the  wool  of  some  worm,  and  toned  down  in  keeping 
with  the  branch  on  which  it  sits  by  minute  tree- 
lichens,  woven  together  by  threads  as  fine  and  frail 
as  gossamer.  From  Eobin' s  good  looks  and  musi- 
cal turn,  we  might  reasonably  predict  a  domicile  of 
equal  fitness  and  elegance.  At  least  I  demand  of 
him  as  clean  and  handsome  a  nest  as  the  king- 
bird's, whose  harsh  jingle,  compared  with  Eobin' s 
evening  melody,  is  as  the  clatter  of  pots  and  kettles 
beside  the  tone  of  a  flute.  I  love  his  note  and 
ways  better  even  than  those  of  the  orchard  starling 
or  the  Baltimore  oriole;  yet  his  nest,  compared 
with  theirs,  is  a  half-subterranean  hut  contrasted 
with  a  Eoman  villa.  There  is  something  courtly 
and  poetical  in  a  pensile  nest.  Next  to  a  castle  in 
the  air  is  a  dwelling  suspended  to  the  slender  branch 
of  a  tall  tree,  swayed  and  rocked  forever  by  the 
wind.  Why  need  wings  be  afraid  of  falling  ?  Why 
build  only  where  boys  can  climb?  After  all,  we 
must  set  it  down  to  the  account  of  Eobin 's  demo- 
cratic turn:  he  is  no  aristocrat,  but  one  of  the 


6  WAKE-KOBIN 

people ;  and  therefore  we  should  expect  stability  in 
his  workmanship,  rather  than  elegance. 

Another  April  bird,  which  makes  her  appearance 
sometimes  earlier  and  sometimes  later  than  Robin, 
and  whose  memory  I  fondly  cherish,  is  the  phcebe- 
bird,  the  pioneer  of  the  flycatchers.  In  the  inland 
farming  districts,  I  used  to  notice  her,  on  some 
bright  morning  about  Easter  Day,  proclaiming  her 
arrival,  with  much  variety  of  motion  and  attitude, 
from  the  peak  of  the  barn  or  hay-shed.  As  yet, 
you  may  have  heard  only  the  plaintive,  homesick 
note  of  the  bluebird,  or  the  faint  trill  of  the  song 
sparrow ;  and  Phoebe's  clear,  vivacious  assurance  of 
her  veritable  bodily  presence  among  us  again  is  wel- 
comed by  all  ears.  At  agreeable  intervals  in  her 
lay  she  describes  a  circle  or  an  ellipse  in  the  air, 
ostensibly  prospecting  for  insects,  but  really,  I  sus- 
pect, as  an  artistic  flourish,  thrown  in  to  make  up 
in  some  way  for  the  deficiency  of  her  musical  per- 
formance. If  plainness  of  dress  indicates  powers  of 
song,  as  it  usually  does,  then  Phoebe  ought  to  be 
unrivaled  in  musical  ability,  for  surely  that  ashen- 
gray  suit  is  the  superlative  of  plainness ;  and  that 
form,  likewise,  would  hardly  pass  for  a  "perfect 
figure  "  of  a  bird.  The  seasonableness  of  her  com- 
ing, however,  and  her  civil,  neighborly  ways,  shall 
make  up  for  all  deficiencies  in  song  and  plumage. 
After  a  few  weeks  Phoebe  is  seldom  seen,  except  as 
she  darts  from  her  moss-covered  nest  beneath  some 
bridge  or  shelving  cliff. 

Another  April  comer,  who  arrives  shortly  after 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  BIRDS  7 

Robin-redbreast,  with  whom  he  associates  both  at 
this  season  and  in  the  autumn,  is  the  gold-winged 
woodpecker,  alias  "high-hole,"  alias  "flicker," 
alias  "yarup."  He  is  an  old  favorite  of  my  boy- 
hood, and  his  note  to  me  means  very  much.  He 
announces  his  arrival  by  a  long,  loud  call,  repeated 
from  the  dry  branch  of  some  tree,  or  a  stake  in 
the  fence,  —  a  thoroughly  melodious  April  sound. 
I  think  how  Solomon  finished  that  beautiful  de- 
scription of  spring,  "And  the  voice  of  the  turtle  is 
heard  in  the  land,"  and  see  that  a  description  of 
spring  in  this  farming  country,  to  be  equally  char- 
acteristic, should  culminate  in  like  manner,  —  "And 
the  call  of  the  high-hole  comes  up  from  the  wood." 
It  is  a  loud,  strong,  sonorous  call,  and  does  riot 
seem  to  imply  an  answer,  but  rather  to  subserve 
some  purpose  of  love  or  music.  It  is  "Yarup's* 
proclamation  of  peace  and  goodwill  to  all.  On 
looking  at  the  matter  closely,  I  perceive  that  most 
birds,  not  denominated  songsters,  have,  in  the 
spring,  some  note  or  sound  or  call  that  hints  of  a 
song,  and  answers  imperfectly  the  end  of  beauty 
and  art.  As  a  "livelier  iris  changes  on  the  bur- 
nished dove,"  and  the  fancy  of  the  young  man 
turns  lightly  to  thoughts  of  his  pretty  cousin,  so 
the  same  renewing  spirit  touches  the  "silent  sing- 
ers," and  they  are  no  longer  dumb;  faintly  they 
lisp  the  first  syllables  of  the  marvelous  tale.  Wit- 
ness the  clear,  sweet  whistle  of  the  gray-crested 
titmouse, —  the  soft,  nasal  piping  of  the  nuthatch, — - 
the  amorous,  vivacious  warble  of  the  bluebird,  — 


8  WAKE-ROBIN 

the  long,  rich  note  of  the  meadowlark,  —  the  whis- 
tie  of  the  quail,  —  the  drumming  of  the  partridge, 

—  the  animation   and  loquacity  of    the    swallows, 
and  the  like.     Even  the  hen  has  a  homely,  con- 
tented carol;  and  I  credit  the  owls  with  a  desire 
to  fill  the  night  with  music.      All  birds  are  incipi- 
ent or  would-be   songsters  in  the   spring.      I  find 
corroborative  evidence  of  this  even  in  the  crowing 
of  the  cock.      The  flowering  of  the  maple  is  not  so 
obvious  as  that  of  the  magnolia;  nevertheless,  there 
is  actual  inflorescence. 

Few  writers  award  any  song  to  that  familiar  little 
sparrow,  the  Socialis ;  yet  who  that  has  observed 
him  sitting  by  the  wayside,  and  repeating,  with 
devout  attitude,  that  fine  sliding  chant,  does  not 
recognize  the  neglect?  Who  has  heard  the  snow- 
bird sing  ?  Yet  he  has  a  lisping  warble  very  savory 
to  the  ear.  I  have  heard  him  indulge  in  it  even  in 
February. 

Even  the  cow  bunting  feels  the  musical  tendency, 
and  aspires  to  its  expression,  with  the  rest.  Perched 
upon  the  topmost  branch  beside  his  mate  or  mates, 

—  for  he  is  quite  a  polygamist,  and  usually  has  two 
or  three  demure  little  ladies  in  faded  black  beside 
him,  —  generally  in  the  early  part  of  the  day,  he 
seems  literally  to  vomit  up  -his  notes.      Apparently 
with  much  labor  and  effort,  they  gurgle  and  blub- 
ber up  out  of  him,  falling  on  the  ear  with  a  pecul- 
iar subtile  ring,   as  of  turning  water  from  a  glass 
bottle,  and  riot  without  a  certain  pleasing  cadence. 

Neither  is  the  common  woodpecker  entirely  in- 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE   BIRDS  9 

sensible  to  the  wooing  of  the  spring,  and,  like  the 
partridge,  testifies  his  appreciation  of  melody  after 
quite  a  primitive  fashion.  Passing  through  the 
woods  on  some  clear,  still  morning  in  March,  while 
the  metallic  ring  and  tension  of  winter  are  still  in 
the  earth  and  air,  the  silence  is  suddenly  broken  by 
long,  resonant  hammering  upon  a  dry  limb  or  stub. 
It  is  Downy  beating  a  reveille  to  spring.  In  the 
utter  stillness  and  amid  the  rigid  forms  we  listen 
with  pleasure;  and,  as  it  comes  to  my  ear  oftener 
at  this  season  than  at  any  other,  I  freely  exonerate 
the  author  of  it  from  the  imputation  of  any  gastro- 
nomic motives,  and  credit  him  with  a  genuine  musi- 
cal performance. 

It  is  to  be  expected,  therefore,  that  "yellow- 
hammer  "  will  respond  to  the  general  tendency,  and 
contribute  his  part  to  the  spring  chorus.  His  April 
call  is  his  finest  touch,  his  most  musical  expres- 
sion. 

I  recall  an  ancient  maple  standing  sentry  to  a 
large  sugar-bush,  that,  year  after  year,  afforded 
protection  to  a  brood  of  yellow-hammers  in  its 
decayed  heart.  A  week  or  two  before  the  nesting 
seemed  actually  to  have  begun,  three  or  four  of 
these  birds  might  be  seen,  on  almost  any  bright 
morning,  gamboling  and  courting  amid  its  decayed 
branches.  Sometimes  you  would  hear  only  a  gen- 
tle persuasive  cooing,  or  a  quiet  confidential  chat- 
tering, —  then  that  long,  loud  call,  taken  up  by 
first  one,  then  another,  as  they  sat  about  upon  the 
naked  limbs,  —  anon,  a  sort  of  wild,  rollicking 


10  WAKE-ROBIN 

laughter,  intermingled  with  various  cries,  yelps, 
and  squeals,  as  if  some  incident  had  excited  their 
mirth  and  ridicule.  Whether  this  social  hilarity 
and  boisterousness  is  in  celebration  of  the  pairing 
or  mating  ceremony,  or  whether  it  is  only  a  sort  of 
annual  "  house-warming  "  common  among  high-holes 
on  resuming  their  summer  quarters,  is  a  question 
upon  which  I  reserve  my  judgment. 

Unlike  most  of  his  kinsmen,  the  golden-wing 
prefers  the  fields  and  the  borders  of  the  forest  to 
the  deeper  seclusion  of  the  woods,  and  hence,  con- 
trary to  the  habit  of  his  tribe,  obtains  most  of  his 
subsistence  from  the  ground,  probing  it  for  ants 
and  crickets.  He  is  not  quite  satisfied  with  being 
a  woodpecker.  He  courts  the  society  of  the  robin 
and  the  finches,  abandons  the  trees  for  the' meadow, 
and  feeds  eagerly  upon  berries  and  grain.  What 
may  be  the  final  upshot  of  this  course  of  living  is 
a  question  worthy  the  attention  of  Darwin.  Will 
his  taking  to  the  ground  and  his  pedestrian  feats 
result  in  lengthening  his  legs,  his  feeding  upon 
berries  and  grains  subdue  his  tints  and  soften  his 
voice,  and  his  associating  with  Eobin  put  a  song 
into  his  heart  ? 

Indeed,  what  would  be  more  interesting  than  the 
history  of  our  birds  for  the  last  two  or  three  centu- 
ries ?  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  presence  of 
man  has  exerted  a  very  marked  and  friendly  influ- 
ence upon  them,  since  they  so  multiply  in  his 
society.  The  birds  of  California,  it  is  said,  were 
mostly  silent  till  after  its  settlement,  and  I  doubt 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE   BIRDS  11 

if  the  Indians  heard  the  wood  thrush  as  we  hear 
him.  Where  did  the  bobolink  disport  himself 
before  there  were  meadows  in  the  North  and  rice- 
fields  in  the  South?  Was  he  the  same  lithe, 
merry-hearted  beau  then  as  now?  And  the  spar- 
row, the  lark,  and  the  goldfinch,  birds  that  seem 
so  indigenous  to  the  open  fields  and  so  averse  to 
the  woods,  —  we  cannot  conceive  of  their  existence 
in  a  vast  wilderness  and  without  man. 

But  to  return.  The  song  sparrow,  that  univer- 
sal favorite  and  firstling  of  the  spring,  comes  before 
April,  and  its  simple  strain  gladdens  all  hearts. 

May  is  the  month  of  the  swallows  and  the 
orioles.  There  are  many  other  distinguished  arri- 
vals, indeed  nine  tenths  of  the  birds  are  here  by 
the  last  week  in  May,  yet  the  swallows  and  orioles 
are  the  most  conspicuous.  The  bright  plumage  of 
the  latter  seems  really  like  an  arrival  from  the 
tropics.  I  see  them  dash  through  the  blossoming 
trees,  and  all  the  forenoon  hear  their  incessant 
warbling  and  wooing.  The  swallows  dive  and 
chatter  about  the  barn,  or  squeak  and  build  beneath 
the  eaves;  the  partridge  drums  in  the  fresh  sprout- 
ing woods;  the  long,  tender  note  of  the  meadow- 
lark  comes  up  from  the  meadow;  and  at  sunset, 
from  every  marsh  and  pond  come  the  ten  thousand 
voices  of  the  hylas.  May  is  the  transition  month, 
and  exists  to  connect  April  and  June,  the  root  with 
the  flower. 

With  June  the  cup  is  full,  our  hearts  are  satis- 
fied, there  is  no  more  to  be  desired.  The  perfec- 


12  WAKE-ROBIN 

tion  of  the  season,  among  other  things,  has  brought 
the  perfection  of  the  song  and  plumage  of  the 
birds.  The  master  artists  are  all  here;  and  the 
expectations  excited  by  the  robin  and  the  song 
sparrow  are  fully  justified.  The  thrushes  have  all 
come;  and  I  sit  down  upon  the  first  rock,  with 
hands  full  of  the  pink  azalea,  to  listen.  With  me, 
the  cuckoo  does  not  arrive  till  June;  and  often 
the  goldfinch,  the  kingbird,  the  scarlet  tanager 
delay  their  coming  till  then.  In  the  meadows  the 
bobolink  is  in  all  his  glory;  in  the  high  pastures 
the  field  sparrow  sings  his  breezy  vesper-hymn; 
and  the  woods  are  unfolding  to  the  music  of  the 
thrushes. 

The  cuckoo  is  one  of  the  most  solitary  birds  of 
our  forests,  and  is  strangely  tame  and  quiet,  appear- 
ing equally  untouched  by  joy  or  grief,  fear  or 
anger.  Something  remote  seems  ever  weighing 
upon  his  mind.  His  note  or  call  is  as  of  one  lost 
or  wandering,  and  to  the  farmer  is  prophetic  of 
rain.  Amid  the  general  joy  and  the  sweet  assur- 
ance of  things,  I  love  to  listen  to  the  strange  clair- 
voyant call.  Heard  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  from 
out  the  depths  of  the  forest,  there  is  something 
peculiarly  weird  and  monkish  about  it.  Words- 
worth's lines  upon  the  European  species  apply 
equally  well  to  ours :  — 

"  0  blithe  new-comer  !  I  have  heard, 

I  hear  thee  and  rejoice : 
O  cuckoo !  shall  I  call  thee  bird  ? 
Or  but  a  wandering  voice  ? 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE   BIRDS  13 

"  While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass, 

Thy  loud  note  smites  my  ear  I 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 
At  once  far  off  and  near  ! 


"  Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  spring  I 

Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 
No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing, 
A  voice,  a  mystery." 

The  black-billed  is  the  only  species  found  in  my 
locality,  the  yellow-billed  abounds  farther  south. 
Their  note  or  call  is  nearly  the  same.  The  former 
sometimes  suggests  the  voice  of  a  turkey.  The  call 
of  the  latter  may  be  suggested  thus:  k-k-k-k-k-kow, 
kow,  kow-oWy  kow-ow. 

The  yellow-billed  will  take  up  his  stand  in  a 
tree,  and  explore  its  branches  till  he  has  caught 
every  worm.  He  sits  on  a  twig,  and  with  a  pecul- 
iar swaying  movement  of  his  head  examines  the 
surrounding  foliage.  When  he  discovers  his  prey, 
he  leaps  upon  it  in  a  fluttering  manner. 

In  June  the  black-billed  makes  a  tour  through 
the  orchard  and  garden,  regaling  himself  upon  the 
canker-worms.  At  this  time  he  is  one  of  the 
tamest  of  birds,  and  will  allow  you  to  approach 
within  a  few  yards  of  him.  I  have  even  come 
within  a  few  feet  of  one  without  seeming  to  excite 
his  fear  or  suspicion.  He  is  quite  unsophisticated, 
or  else  royally  indifferent. 

The  plumage  of  the  cuckoo  is  a  rich  glossy 
brown,  and  is  unrivaled  in  beauty  by  any  other 
neutral  tint  with  which  I  am  acquainted.  It  is 
also  remarkable  for  its  firmness  and  fineness. 


14  WAKE-ROBIN 

Notwithstanding  the  disparity  in  size  and  color, 
the  black- billed  species  has  certain  peculiarities  that 
remind  one  of  the  passenger  pigeon.  His  eye,  with 
its  red  circle,  the  shape  of  his  head,  and  his 
motions  on  alighting  and  taking  flight,  quickly  sug- 
gest the  resemblance;  though  in  grace  and  speed, 
when  on  the  wing,  he  is  far  inferior.  His  tail 
seems  disproportionately  long,  like  that  of  the  red 
thrush,  and  his  flight  among  the  trees  is  very  still, 
contrasting  strongly  with  the  honest  clatter  of  the 
robin  or  pigeon. 

Have  you  heard  the  song  of  the  field  sparrow  ? 
If  you  have  lived  in  a  pastoral  country  with  broad 
upland  pastures,  you  could  hardly  have  missed 
him.  Wilson,  I  believe,  calls  him  the  grass  finch, 
and  was  evidently  unacquainted  with  his  powers  of 
song.  The  two  white  lateral  quills  in  his  tail,  and 
his  habit  of  running  and  skulking  a  few  yards  in 
advance  of  you  as  you  walk  through  the  fields,  are 
sufficient  to  identify  him.  Not  in  meadows  or 
orchards,  but  in  high,  breezy  pasture-grounds,  will 
you  look  for  him.  His  song  is  most  noticeable 
after  sundown,  when  other  birds  are  silent;  for 
which  reason  he  has  been  aptly  called  the  vesper 
sparrow.  The  farmer  following  his  team  from  the 
field  at  dusk  catches  his  sweetest  strain.  His  song 
is  not  so  brisk  and  varied  as  that  of  the  song  spar- 
row, being  softer  and  wilder,  sweeter  and  more 
plaintive.  Add  the  best  parts  of  the  lay  of  the 
latter  to  the  sweet  vibrating  chant  of  the  wood 
sparrow,  and  you  have  the  evening  hymn  of  the 


THE  EETURN  OF  THE  BIRDS  15 

vesper-bird,  —  the  poet  of  the  plain,  unadorned 
pastures.  Go  to  those  broad,  smooth,  uplying 
fields  where  the  cattle  and  sheep  are  grazing,  and 
sit  down  in  the  twilight  on  one  of  those  warm, 
clean  stones,  and  listen  to  this  song.  On  every 
side,  near  and  remote,  from  out  the  short  grass 
which  the  herds  are  cropping,  the  strain  rises. 
Two  or  three  long,  silver  notes  of  peace  and  rest, 
ending  in  some  subdued  trills  and  quavers,  consti- 
tute each  separate  song.  Often  you  will  catch  only 
one  or  two  of  the  bars,  the  breeze  having  blown  the 
minor  part  away.  Such  unambitious,  quiet,  un- 
conscious melody !  It  is  one  of  the  most  character- 
istic sounds  in  nature.  The  grass,  the  stones,  the 
stubble,  the  furrow,  the  quiet  herds,  and  the  warm 
twilight  among  the  hills,  are  all  subtly  expressed  in 
this  song;  this  is  what  they  are  at  last  capable  of. 

The  female  builds  a  plain  nest  in  the  open  field, 
without  so  much  as  a  bush  or  thistle  or  tuft  of 
grass  to  protect  it  or  mark  its  site;  you  may  step 
upon  it,  or  the  cattle  may  tread  it  into  the  ground. 
But  the  danger  from  this  source,  I  presume,  the 
bird  considers  less  than  that  from  another.  Skunks 
and  foxes  have  a  very  impertinent  curiosity,  as 
Finchie  well  knows;  and  a  bank  or  hedge,  or  a 
rank  growth  of  grass  or  thistles,  that  might  prom- 
ise protection  and  cover  to  mouse  or  bird,  these 
cunning  rogues  would  be  apt  to  explore  most  thor- 
oughly. The  partridge  is  undoubtedly  acquainted 
with  the  same  process  of  reasoning;  for,  like  the 
vesper-bird,  she,  too,  nests  in  open,  unprotected 


16  WAKE-KOBIN 

places,  avoiding  all  show  of  concealment,  —  coming 
from  the  tangled  and  almost  impenetrable  parts  of 
the  forest  to  the  clean,  open  woods,  where  she  can 
command  all  the  approaches  and  fly  with  equal  ease 
in  any  direction. 

Another  favorite  sparrow,  but  little  noticed,  is 
the  wood  or  bush  sparrow,  usually  called  by  the 
ornithologists  Spizella  pusilla.  Its  size  and  form 
is  that  of  the  socialis,  but  is  less  distinctly  marked, 
being  of  a  duller  redder  tinge.  He  prefers  remote 
bushy  heathery  fields,  where  his  song  is  one  of  the 
sweetest  to  be  heard.  It  is  sometimes  very  notice- 
able, especially  early  in  spring.  I  remember  sit- 
ting one  bright  day  in  the  still  leafless  April  woods, 
when  one  of  these  birds  struck  up  a  few  rods  from 
me,  repeating  its  lay  at  short  intervals  for  nearly 
an  hour.  It  was  a  perfect  piece  of  wood-music, 
and  was  of  course  all  the  more  noticeable  for  being 
projected  upon  such  a  broad  unoccupied  page  of 
silence.  Its  song  is  like  the  words,  fe-o,  fe-o,  fe-ot 
few,  few,  few,  fee  fee  fee,  uttered  at  first  high  and 
leisurely,  but  running  very  rapidly  toward  the  close, 
which  is  low  and  soft. 

Still  keeping  among  the  unrecognized,  the  white- 
eyed  vireo,  or  flycatcher,  deserves  particular  men- 
tion. The  song  of  this  bird  is  not  particularly 
sweet  and  soft;  on  the  contrary,  it  is  a  little  hard 
and  shrill,  like  that  of  the  indigo- bird  or  oriole;  but 
for  brightness,  volubility,  execution,  and  power  of 
imitation,  he  is  unsurpassed  by  any  of  our  northern 
birds.  His  ordinary  note  is  forcible  and  emphatic, 


THE  RETUEN  OF  THE  BIRDS  17 

but,  as  stated,  not  especially  musical ;  Chick-a-re'r- 
chick,  he  seems  to  say,  hiding  himself  in  the  low, 
dense  undergrowth,  and  eluding  your  most  vigilant 
search,  as  if  playing  some  part  in  a  game.  But  in 
July  or  August,  if  you  are  on  good  terms  with  the 
sylvan  deities,  you  may  listen  to  a  far  more  rare 
and  artistic  performance.  Your  first  impression 
will  he  that  that  cluster  of  azalea,  or  that  clump  of 
swamp-huckleherry,  conceals  three  or  four  different 
songsters,  each  vying  with  the  others  to  lead  the 
chorus.  Such  a  medley  of  notes,  snatched  from 
half  the  songsters  of  the  field  and  forest,  and  uttered 
with  the  utmost  clearness  and  rapidity,  I  am  sure 
you  cannot  hear  short  of  the  haunts  of  the  genuine 
mockingbird.  If  not  fully  and  accurately  repeated, 
there  are  at  least  suggested  the  notes  of  the  robin, 
wren,  catbird,  high-hole,  goldfinch,  and  song  spar- 
row. The  pip,  pip,  of  the  last  is  produced  so 
accurately  that  I  verily  believe  it  would  deceive  the 
bird  herself;  and  the  whole  uttered  in  such  rapid 
succession  that  it  seems  as  if  the  movement  that 
gives  the  concluding  note  of  one  strain  must  form 
the  first  note  of  the  next.  The  effect  is  very  rich, 
and,  to  my  ear,  entirely  unique.  The  performer  is 
very  careful  not  to  reveal  himself  in  the  mean  time; 
yet  there  is  a  conscious  air  about  the  strain  that 
impresses  me  with  the  idea  that  my  presence  is 
understood  and  my  attention  courted.  A  tone  of 
pride  and  glee,  and,  occasionally,  of  bantering  jocose- 
ness,  is  discernible.  I  believe  it  is  only  rarely,  and 
when  he  is  sure  of  his  audience,  that  he  displays 


18  WAKE-ROBIN 

his  parts  in  this  manner.  You  are  to  look  for  him, 
not  in  tall  trees  or  deep  forests,  but  in  low,  dense 
shrubbery  about  wet  places,  where  there  are  plenty 
of  gnats  and  mosquitoes. 

The  winter  wren  is  another  marvelous  songster, 
in  speaking  of  whom  it  is  difficult  to  avoid  super- 
latives. He  is  not  so  conscious  of  his  powers  and 
so  ambitious  of  effect  as  the  white-eyed  flycatcher, 
yet  you  will  not  be  less  astonished  and  delighted  on 
hearing  him.  He  possesses  the  fluency  and  copious- 
ness for  which  the  wrens  are  noted,  and  besides 
these  qualities,  and  what  is  rarely  found  conjoined 
with  them,  a  wild,  sweet,  rhythmical  cadence  that 
holds  you  entranced.  I  shall  not  soon  forget  that 
perfect  June  day,  when,  loitering  in  a  low,  ancient 
hemlock  wood,  in  whose  cathedral  aisles  the  cool- 
ness and  freshness  seems  perennial,  the  silence  was 
suddenly  broken  by  a  strain  so  rapid  and  gushing, 
and  touched  with  such  a  wild,  sylvan  plaintiveness, 
that  I  listened  in  amazement.  And  so  shy  and  coy 
was  the  little  minstrel,  that  I  came  twice  to  the 
woods  before  I  was  sure  to  whom  I  was  listening. 
In  summer  he  is  one  of  those  birds  of  the  deep 
northern  forests,  that,  like  the  speckled  Canada 
warbler  and  the  hermit  thrush,  only  the  privileged 
ones  hear. 

The  distribution  of  plants  in  a  given  locality  is 
not  more  marked  and  denned  than  that  of  the  birds. 
Show  a  botanist  a  landscape,  and  he  will  tell  you 
where  to  look  for  the  lady's-slipper,  the  columbine,  or 
the  harebell.  On  the  same  principles  the  ornitholo- 


THE   RETURN  OF  THE   BIRDS  19 

gist  will  direct  you  where  to  look  for  the  greenlets, 
the  wood  sparrow,  or  the  chewink.  In  adjoining 
counties,  in  the  same  latitude,  and  equally  inland, 
but  possessing  a  different  geological  formation  and 
different  forest-timber,  you  will  observe  quite  a 
different  class  of  birds.  In  a  land  of  the  beech  and 
sugar  maple  I  do  not  find  the  same  songsters  that  I 
know  where  thrive  the  oak,  chestnut,  and  laurel. 
In  going  from  a  district  of  the  Old  Red  Sandstone 
to  where  I  walk  upon  the  old  Plutonic  Eock,  not 
fifty  miles  distant,  I  miss  in  the  woods  the  veery, 
the  hermit  thrush,  the  chestnut-sided  warbler,  the 
blue-backed  warbler,  the  green-backed  warbler,  the 
black  and  yellow  warbler,  and  many  others,  and 
find  in  their  stead  the  wood  thrush,  the  chewink, 
the  redstart,  the  yellow  throat,  the  yellow-breasted 
flycatcher,  the  white-eyed  flycatcher,  the  quail,  and 
the  turtle  dove. 

In  my  neighborhood  here  in  the  Highlands  the 
distribution  is  very  marked.  South  of  the  village 
I  invariably  find  one  species  of  birds,  north  of  it 
another.  In  only  one  locality,  full  of  azalea  and 
swamp-huckleberry,  I  am  always  sure  of  finding  the 
hooded  warbler.  In  a  dense  undergrowth  of  spice- 
bush,  witch-hazel,  and  alder,  I  meet  the  worm-eat- 
ing warbler.  In  a  remote  clearing,  covered  with 
heath  and  fern,  with  here  and  there  a  chestnut  and 
an  oak,  I  go  to  hear  in  July  the  wood  sparrow,  and 
returning  by  a  stumpy,  shallow  pond,  I  am  sure  to 
find  the  water-thrush. 

Only  one  locality  within  my  range  seems  to  pos* 


20  WAKE-ROBIN 

Bess  attractions  for  all  comers.  Here  one  may  study 
almost  the  entire  ornithology  of  the  State.  It  is 
a  rocky  piece  of  ground,  long  ago  cleared,  but  now 
fast  relapsing  into  the  wildness  and  freedom  of 
nature,  and  marked  by  those  half-cultivated,  half- 
wild  features  which  birds  and  boys  love.  It  is 
bounded  on  two  sides  by  the  village  and  highway, 
crossed  at  various  points  by  carriage- roads,  and 
threaded  in  all  directions  by  paths  and  byways, 
along  which  soldiers,  laborers,  and  truant  school- 
boys are  passing  at  all  hours  of  the  day.  It  is  so 
far  escaping  from  the  axe  and  the  bush-hook  as  to 
have  opened  communication  with  the  forest  and 
mountain  beyond  by  straggling  lines  of  cedar,  laurel, 
and  blackberry.  The  ground  is  mainly  occupied 
with  cedar  and  chestnut,  with  an  undergrowth,  in 
many  places,  of  heath  and  bramble.  The  chief 
feature,  however,  is  a  dense  growth  in  the  centre, 
consisting  of  dogwood,  water-beech,  swamp-ash, 
alder,  spice-bush,  hazel,  etc.,  with  a  network  of 
smilax  and  frost-grape.  A  little  zigzag  stream,  the 
draining  of  a  swamp  beyond,  which  passes  through 
this  tanglewood,  accounts  for  many  of  its  features 
and  productions,  if  not  for  its  entire  existence. 
Birds  that  are  not  attracted  by  the  heath,  or  the 
cedar  and  chestnut,  are  sure  to  find  some  excuse  for 
visiting  this  miscellaneous  growth  in  the  centre. 
Most  of  the  common  birds  literally  throng  this  idle- 
wild;  and  I  have  met  here  many  of  the  rarer  spe- 
cies, such  as  the  great-crested  flycatcher,  the  soli- 
tary warbler,  the  blue-winged  swamp  warbler,  the 


THE  RETURN  OF   THE   BIRDS  21 

worm-eating  warbler,  the  fox  sparrow,  etc.  The 
absence  of  all  birds  of  prey,  and  the  great  number  of 
flies  and  insects,  both  the  result  of  proximity  to  the 
village,  are  considerations  which  no  hawk-fearing, 
peace-loving  minstrel  passes  over  lightly;  hence  the 
popularity  of  the  resort. 

But  the  crowning  glory  of  all  these  robins,  fly- 
catchers, and  warblers  is  the  wood  thrush.  More 
abundant  than  all  other  birds,  except  the  robin  and 
catbird,  he  greets  you  from  every  rock  and  shrub. 
Shy  and  reserved  when  he  first  makes  his  appear- 
ance in  May,  before  the  end  of  June  he  is  tame  and 
familiar,  and  sings  on  the  tree  over  your  head,  or 
on  the  rock  a  few  paces  in  advance.  A  pair  even 
built  their  nest  and  reared  their  brood  within  ten  or 
twelve  feet  of  the  piazza  of  a  large  summer-house  in 
the  vicinity.  But  when  the  guests  commenced  to 
arrive  and  the  piazza  to  be  thronged  with  gay 
crowds,  I  noticed  something  like  dread  and  forebod- 
ing in  the  manner  of  the  mother  bird;  and  from 
her  still,  quiet  ways,  and  habit  of  sitting  long  and 
silently  within  a  few  feet  of  the  precious  charge,  it 
seemed  as  if  the  dear  creature  had  resolved,  if  pos- 
sible, to  avoid  all  observation. 

If  we  take  the  quality  of  melody  as  the  test,  the 
wood  thrush,  hermit  thrush,  and  the  veery  thrush 
stand  at  the  head  of  our  list  of  songsters. 

The  mockingbird  undoubtedly  possesses  the 
greatest  range  of  mere  talent,  the  most  varied  exec- 
utive ability,  and  never  fails  to  surprise  and  delight 
one  anew  at  each  hearing;  but  being  mostly  an 


22  WAKE-ROBIN 

imitator,  he  never  approaches  the  serene  beauty  and 
sublimity  of  the  hermit  thrush.  The  word  that 
best  expresses  my  feelings,  on  hearing  the  mocking- 
bird, is  admiration,  though  the  first  emotion  is  one 
of  surprise  and  incredulity.  That  so  many  and 
such  various  notes  should  proceed  from  one  throat 
is  a  marvel,  and  we  regard  the  performance  with 
feelings  akin  to  those  we  experience  on  witnessing 
the  astounding  feats  of  the  athlete  or  gymnast, — 
and  this,  notwithstanding  many  of  the  notes  imi- 
tated have  all  the  freshness  and  sweetness  of  the 
originals.  The  emotions  excited  by  the  songs  of 
these  thrushes  belong  to  a  higher  order,  springing  as 
they  do  from  our  deepest  sense  of  the  beauty  and 
harmony  of  the  world. 

The  wood  thrush  is  worthy  of  all,  and  more  than 
all,  the  praises  he  has  received;  and  considering 
the  number  of  his  appreciative  listeners,  it  is  not  a 
little  surprising  that  his  relative  and  equal,  the 
hermit  thrush,  should  have  received  so  little  notice. 
Both  the  great  ornithologists,  Wilson  and  Audubon, 
are  lavish  in  their  praises  of  the  former,  but  have 
little  or  nothing  to  say  of  the  song  of  the  latter. 
Audubon  says  it  is  sometimes  agreeable,  but  evi- 
dently has  never  heard  it.  Nuttall,  I  am  glad  to 
find,  is  more  discriminating,  and  does  the  bird 
fuller  justice. 

It  is  quite  a  rare  bird,  of  very  shy  and  secluded 
habits,  being  found  in  the  Middle  and  Eastern 
States,  during  the  period  of  song,  only  in  the  deep- 
est and  most  remote  forests,  usually  in  damp  and 


THE   RETURN   OF   THE   BIRDS  23 

swampy  localities.  On  this  account  the  people  in 
the  Adirondack  region  call  it  the  "Swamp  Angel." 
Its  being  so  much  of  a  recluse  accounts  for  the  com- 
parative ignorance  that  prevails  in  regard  to  it. 

The  cast  of  its  song  is  very  much  like  that  of  the 
wood  thrush,  and  a  good  observer  might  easily  con- 
found the  two.  But  hear  them  together  and  the 
difference  is  quite  marked:  the  song  of  the  hermit 
is  in  a  higher  key,  and  is  more  wild  and  ethereal. 
His  instrument  is  a  silver  horn  which  he  winds  in 
the  most  solitary  places.  The  song  of  the  wood 
thrush  is  more  golden  and  leisurely.  Its  tone 
comes  near  to  that  of  some  rare  stringed  instrument. 
One  feels  that  perhaps  the  wood  thrush  has  more 
compass  and  power,  if  he  would  only  let  himself 
out,  but  on  the  whole  he  comes  a  little  short  of  the 
pure,  serene,  hymn-like  strain  of  the  hermit. 

Yet  those  who  have  heard  only  the  wood  thrush 
may  well  place  him  first  on  the  list.  He  is  truly 
a  royal  minstrel,  and,  considering  his  liberal  distri- 
bution throughout  our  Atlantic  seaboard,  perhaps 
contributes  more  than  any  other  bird  to  our  sylvan 
melody.  One  may  object  that  he  spends  a  little 
too  much  time  in  tuning  his  instrument,  yet  his 
careless  and  uncertain  touches  reveal  its  rare  com- 
pass and  power. 

He  is  the  only  songster  of  my  acquaintance,  ex- 
cepting the  canary,  that  displays  different  degrees 
of  proficiency  in  the  exercise  of  his  musical  gifts. 
Not  long  since,  while  walking  one  Sunday  in  the 
edge  of  an  orchard  adjoining  a  wood,  I  heard  one 


24  WAKE-ROBIN 

that  so  obviously  and  unmistakably  surpassed  all 
his  rivals,  that  my  companion,  though  slow  to 
notice  such  things,  remarked  it  wonderingly;  and 
with  one  accord  we  paused  to  listen  to  so  rare  a 
performer.  It  was  not  different  in  quality  so  much 
as  in  quantity.  Such  a  flood  of  it!  Such  copious- 
ness! Such  long,  trilling,  accelerating  preludes! 
Such  sudden,  ecstatic  overtures  would  have  intoxi- 
cated the  dullest  ear.  He  was  really  without  a 
compeer,  —  a  master- artist.  Twice  afterward  I  was 
conscious  of  having  heard  the  same  bird. 

The  wood  thrush  is  the  handsomest  species  of 
this  family.  In  grace  and  elegance  of  manner  he 
has  no  equal.  Such  a  gentle,  high-bred  air,  and 
such  inimitable  ease  and  composure  in  his  flight  and 
movement!  He  is  a  poet  in  very  word  and  deed. 
His  carriage  is  music  to  the  eye.  His  performance 
of  the  commonest  act,  as  catching  a  beetle,  or  pick- 
ing a  worm  from  the  mud,  pleases  like  a  stroke  of 
wit  or  eloquence.  Was  he  a  prince  in  the  olden 
time,  and  do  the  regal  grace  and  mien  still  adhere 
to  him  in  his  transformation  ?  What  a  finely  pro- 
portioned form !  How  plain,  yet  rich,  his  color,  — 
the  bright  russet  of  his  back,  the  clear  white  of  his 
breast,  with  the  distinct  heart-shaped  spots!  It 
may  be  objected  to  Kobin  that  he  is  noisy  and 
demonstrative;  he  hurries  away  or  rises  to  a  branch 
with  an  angry  note,  and  flirts  his  wings  in  ill-bred 
suspicion.  The  mavis,  or  red  thrush,  sneaks  and 
skulks  like  a  culprit,  hiding  in  the  densest  alders ; 
the  catbird  is  a  coquette  and  a  flirt,  as  well  as  a 


THE  RETURN   OF   THE  BIRDS  25 

sort  of  female  Paul  Pry;  and  the  chewink  shows 
his  inhospitality  by  espying  your  movements  like 
a  Japanese.  The  wood  thrush  has  none  of  these 
under- bred  traits.  He  regards  me  unsuspiciously,  or 
avoids  me  with  a  noble  reserve,  —  or,  if  I  am  quiet 
and  incurious,  graciously  hops  toward  me,  as  if  to 
pay  his  respects,  or  to  make  my  acquaintance.  I 
have  passed  under  his  nest  within  a  few  feet  of  his 
mate  and  brood,  when  he  sat  near  by  on  a  branch 
eying  me  sharply,  but  without  opening  his  beak; 
but  the  moment  I  raised  my  hand  toward  his  de- 
fenseless household  his  anger  and  indignation  were 
beautiful  to  behold. 

What  a  noble  pride  he  has!  Late  one  October, 
after  his  mates  and  companions  had  long  since  gone 
south,  I  noticed  one  for  several  successive  days  in 
the  dense  part  of  this  next-door  wood,  flitting  noise- 
lessly about,  very  grave  and  silent,  as  if  doing  pen- 
ance for  some  violation  of  the  code  of  honor.  By 
many  gentle,  indirect  approaches,  I  perceived  that 
part  of  his  tail-feathers  were  undeveloped.  The 
sylvan  prince  could  not  think  of  returning  to  court 
in  this  plight,  and  so,  amid  the  falling  leaves  and 
cold  rains  of  autumn,  was  patiently  biding  his  time. 

The  soft,  mellow  flute  of  the  veery  fills  a  place 
in  the  chorus  of  the  woods  that  the  song  of  the  ves- 
per sparrow  fills  in  the  chorus  of  the  fields.  It  has 
the  nightingale's  habit  of  singing  in  the  twilight, 
as  indeed  have  all  our  thrushes.  Walk  out  toward 
the  forest  in  the  warm  twilight  of  a  June  day,  and 
when  fifty  rods  distant  you  will  hear  their  soft, 


26  WAKE-EOBIN 

reverberating  notes  rising  from  a  dozen  different 
throats. 

It  is  one  of  the  simplest  strains  to  be  heard,  —  as 
simple  as  the  curve  in  form,  delighting  from  the 
pure  element  of  harmony  and  beauty  it  contains, 
and  not  from  any  novel  or  fantastic  modulation  of 
it,  —  thus  contrasting  strongly  with  such  rollicking, 
hilarious  songsters  as  the  bobolink,  in  whom  we  are 
chiefly  pleased  with  the  tintinnabulation,  the  verbal 
and  labial  excellence,  and  the  evident  conceit  and 
delight  of  the  performer. 

I  hardly  know  whether  I  am  more  'pleased  or 
annoyed  with  the  catbird.  Perhaps  she  is  a  little 
too  common,  and  her  part  in  the  general  chorus  a 
little  too  conspicuous.  If  you  are  listening  for  the 
note  of  another  bird,  she  is  sure  to  be  prompted  to 
the  most  loud  and  protracted  singing,  drowning  all 
other  sounds;  if  you  sit  quietly  down  to  observe  a 
favorite  or  study  a  new-comer,  her  curiosity  knows 
no  bounds,  and  you  are  scanned  and  ridiculed  from 
every  point  of  observation.  Yet  I  would  not  miss 
her;  I  would  only  subordinate  her  a  little,  make 
her  less  conspicuous. 

She  is  the  parodist  of  the  woods,  and  there  is 
ever  a  mischievous,  bantering,  half-ironical  under- 
tone in  her  lay,  as  if  she  were  conscious  of  mimick- 
ing and  disconcerting  some  envied  songster.  Ambi- 
tious of  song,  practicing  and  rehearsing  in  private, 
she  yet  seems  the  least  sincere  and  genuine  of  the 
sylvan  minstrels,  as  if  she  had  taken  up  music  only 
to  be  in  the  fashion,  or  not  to  be  outdone  by  the 


THE   RETURN  OF  THE   BIRDS  27 

robins  and  thrushes.  In  other  words,  she  seems  to 
sing  from  some  outward  motive,  and  not  from  in- 
ward joyousness.  She  is  a  good  versifier,  but  not 
a  great  poet.  Vigorous,  rapid,  copious,  not  without 
fine  touches,  but  destitute  of  any  high,  serene  mel- 
ody, her  performance,  like  that  of  Thoreau's  squir- 
rel, always  implies  a  spectator. 

There  is  a  certain  air  and  polish  about  her  strain, 
however,  like  that  in  the  vivacious  conversation  of 
a  well-bred  lady  of  the  world,  that  commands  re- 
spect. Her  maternal  instinct,  also,  is  very  strong, 
and  that  simple  structure  of  dead  twigs  and  dry 
grass  is  the  centre  of.  much  anxious  solicitude.  Not 
long  since,  while  strolling  through  the  woods,  my 
attention  was  attracted  to  a  small  densely  grown 
swamp,  hedged  in  with  eglantine^  brambles,  and 
the  everlasting  smilax,  from  which  proceeded  loud 
cries  of  distress  and  alarm,  indicating  that  some 
terrible  calamity  was  threatening  my  sombre- colored 
minstrel.  On  effecting  an  entrance,  which,  how- 
ever, was  not  accomplished  till  I  had  doffed  coat 
and  hat,  so  as  to  diminish  the  surface  exposed  to 
the  thorns  and  brambles,  and,  looking  around  me 
from  a  square  yard  of  terra  firma,  I  found  myself 
the  spectator  of  a  loathsome  yet  fascinating  scene. 
Three  or  four  yards  from  me  was  the  nest,  beneath 
which,  in  long  festoons,  rested  a  huge  black  snake ; 
a  bird  two  thirds  grown  was  slowly  disappearing 
between  his  expanded  jaws.  As  he  seemed  uncon- 
scious of  my  presence,  I  quietly  observed  the  pro- 
ceedings. By  slow  degrees  he  compassed  the  bird 


28  WAKE-ROBIN 

about  with  his  elastic  mouth;  his  head  flattened, 
his  neck  writhed  and  swelled,  and  two  or  three  un- 
dulatory  movements  of  his  glistening  body  finished 
the  work.  Then  he  cautiously  raised  himself  up, 
his  tongue  flaming  from  his  mouth  the  while,  curved 
over  the  nest,  and,  with  wavy,  subtle  motions,  ex- 
plored the  interior.  I  can  conceive  of  nothing 
more  overpoweringly  terrible  to  an  unsuspecting 
family  of  birds  than  the  sudden  appearance  above 
their  domicile  of  the  head  and  neck  of  this  arch- 
enemy. It  is  enough  to  petrify  the  blood  in  their 
veins.  Not  finding  the  object  of  his  search,  he 
came  streaming  down  from  the  nest  to  a  lower  limb, 
and  commenced  extending  his  researches  in  other 
directions,  sliding  stealthily  through  the  branches, 
bent  on  capturing  one  of  the  parent  birds.  That  a 
legless,  wingless  creature  should  move  with  such 
ease  and  rapidity  where  only  birds  and  squirrels 
are  considered  at  home,  lifting  himself  up,  letting 
himself  down,  running  out  on  the  yielding  boughs, 
and  traversing  with  marvelous  celerity  the  whole 
length  and  breadth  of  the  thicket,  was  truly  surpris- 
ing. One  thinks  of  the  great  myth  of  the  Tempter 
and  the  "cause  of  all  our  woe,"  and  wonders  if  the 
Arch  One  is  not  now  playing  off  some  of  his  pranks 
before  him.  Whether  we  call  it  snake  or  devil 
matters  little.  I  could  but  admire  his  terrible 
beauty,  however;  his  black,  shining  folds,  his  easy, 
gliding  movement,  head  erect,  eyes  glistening, 
tongue  playing  like  subtle  flame,  and  the  invisible 
means  of  his  almost  winged  locomotion. 


THE   RETURN   OF  THE   BIRDS  29 

The  parent  birds,  in  the  mean  while,  kept  up 
the  most  agonizing  cry,  —  at  times  fluttering  furi- 
ously about  their  pursuer,  and  actually  laying  hold 
of  his  tail  with  their  beaks  and  claws.  On  being 
thus  attacked,  the  snake  would  suddenly  double 
upon  himself  and  follow  his  own  body  back,  thus 
executing  a  strategic  movement  that  at  first  seemed 
almost  to  paralyze  his  victim  and  place  her  within 
his  grasp.  Not  quite,  however.  Before  his  jaws 
could  close  upon  the  coveted  prize  the  bird  would 
tear  herself  away,  and,  apparently  faint  and  sob- 
bing, retire  to  a  higher  branch.  His  reputed  pow- 
ers of  fascination  availed  him  little,  though  it  is 
possible  that  a  frailer  and  less  combative  bird  might 
have  been  held  by  the  fatal  spell.  Presently,  as 
he  came  gliding  down  the  slender  body  of  a  lean- 
ing alder,  his  attention  was  attracted  by  a  slight 
movement  of  my  arm;  eying  me  an  instant,  with 
that  crouching,  utter,  motionless  gaze  which  I  be- 
lieve only  snakes  and  devils  can  assume,  he  turned 
quickly,  —  a  feat  which  necessitated  something  like 
crawling  over  his  own  body,  —  and  glided  off 
through  the  branches,  evidently  recognizing  in  me 
a  representative  of  the  ancient  parties  he  once  so 
cunningly  ruined.  A  few  moments  after,  as  he  lay 
carelessly  disposed  in  the  top  of  a  rank  alder,  try- 
ing to  look  as  much  like  a  crooked  branch  as  his 
supple,  shining  form  would  admit,  the  old  vengeance 
overtook  him.  I  exercised  my  prerogative,  and  a 
well-directed  missile,  in  the  shape  of  a  stone, 
brought  him  looping  and  writhing  to  the  ground. 


80  WAKE-KOBIN 

After  I  had  completed  his  downfall  and  quiet  had 
been  partially  restored,  a  half-fledged  member  of 
the  bereaved  household  came  out  from  his  hiding- 
place,  and,  jumping  upon  a  decayed  branch,  chirped 
vigorously,  no  doubt  in  celebration  of  the  victory. 

Till  the  middle  of  July  there  is  a  general  equi- 
librium ;  the  tide  stands  poised;  the  holiday  spirit 
is  unabated.  But  as  the  harvest  ripens  beneath  the 
long,  hot  days,  the  melody  gradually  ceases.  The 
young  are  out  of  the  nest  and  must  be  cared  for, 
and  the  moulting  season  is  at  hand.  After  the 
cricket  has  commenced  to  drone  his  monotonous 
refrain  beneath  your  window,  you  will  not,  till 
another  season,  hear  the  wood  thrush  in  all  his 
matchless  eloquence.  The  bobolink  has  become 
careworn  and  fretful,  and  blurts  out  snatches  of  his 
song  between  his  scolding  and  upbraiding,  as  you 
approach  the  vicinity  of  his  nest,  oscillating  between 
anxiety  for  his  brood  and  solicitude  for  his  musical 
reputation.  Some  of  the  sparrows  still  sing,  and 
occasionally  across  the  hot  fields,  from  a  tall  tree 
in  the  edge  of  the  forest,  comes  the  rich  note  of 
the  scarlet  tanager.  This  tropical- colored  bird  loves 
the  hottest  weather,  and  I  hear  him  even  in  dog- 
days. 

The  remainder  of  the  summer  is  the  carnival  of 
the  swallows  and  flycatchers.  Flies  and  insects, 
to  any  amount,  are  to  be  had  for  the  catching;  and 
the  opportunity  is  well  improved.  See  that  sombre, 
ashen-colored  pewee  on  yonder  branch.  A  true 
sportsman  he,  who  never  takes  his  game  at  rest, 


THE   RETURN   OF  THE   BIRDS  31 

but  always  on  the  wing.  You  vagrant  fly,  you 
purblind  moth,  beware  how  you  come  within  his 
range!  Observe  his  attitude,  the  curious  move- 
ment of  his  head,  his  "eye  in  a  fine  frenzy  roll- 
ing, glancing  from  heaven  to  earth,  from  earth  to 
heaven. " 

His  sight  is  microscopic  and  his  aim  sure. 
Quick  as  thought  he  has  seized  his  victim  and  is 
back  to  his  perch.  There  is  no  strife,  no  pursuit, 
—  one  fell  swoop  and  the  matter  is  ended.  That 
little  sparrow,  as  you  will  observe,  is  less  skilled. 
It  is  the  Socialis,  and  he  finds  his  subsistence  prop- 
erly in  various  seeds  and  the  larvae  of  insects, 
though  he  occasionally  has  higher  aspirations,  and 
seeks  to  emulate  the  pewee,  commencing  and  end- 
ing his  career  as  a  flycatcher  by  an  awkward  chase 
after  a  beetle  or  "miller."  He  is  hunting  around 
in  the  grass  now,  I  suspect,  with  the  desire  to  in- 
dulge this  favorite  whim.  There !  —  the  opportu- 
nity is  afforded  him.  Away  goes  a  little  cream- 
colored  meadow-moth  in  the  most  tortuous  course 
he  is  capable  of,  and  away  goes  Socialis  in  pursuit. 
The  contest  is  quite  comical,  though  I  dare  say  it 
is  serious  enough  to  the  moth.  The  chase  contin- 
ues for  a  few  yards,  when  there  is  a  sudden  rush- 
ing to  cover  in  the  grass,  —  then  a  taking  to  wing 
again,  when  the  search  has  become  too  close,  and 
the  moth  has  recovered  his  wind.  Socialis  chirps 
angrily,  and  is  determined  not  to  be  beaten.  Keep- 
ing, with  the  slightest  effort,  upon  the  heels  of  the 
fugitive,  he  is  ever  on  the  point  of  halting  to  snap 


82  WAKE-ROBIN 

him  up,  but  never  quite  does  it, —  and  so,  between 
disappointment  and  expectation,  is  soon  disgusted, 
and  returns  to  pursue  his  more  legitimate  means  of 
subsistence. 

In  striking  contrast  to  this  serio-comic  strife  of 
the  sparrow  and  the  moth,  is  the  pigeon  hawk's 
pursuit  of  the  sparrow  or  the  goldfinch.  It  is  a 
race  of  surprising  speed  and  agility.  It  is  a  test  of 
wing  and  wind.  Every  muscle  is  taxed,  and  every 
nerve  strained.  Such  cries  of  terror  and  consterna- 
tion on  the  part  of  the  bird,  tacking  to  the  right 
and  left,  and  making  the  most  desperate  efforts  to 
escape,  and  such  silent  determination  on  the  part  of 
the  hawk,  pressing  the  bird  so  closely,  flashing  and 
turning,  and  timing  his  movements  with  those  of 
the  pursued  as  accurately  and  as  inexorably  as  if 
the  two  constituted  one  body,  excite  feelings  of  the 
deepest  concern.  You  mount  the  fence  or  rush  out 
of  your  way  to  see  the  issue.  The  only  salvation 
for  the  bird  is  to  adopt  the  tactics  of  the  moth, 
seeking  instantly  the  cover  of  some  tree,  bush,  or 
hedge,  where  its  smaller  size  enables  it  to  move 
about  more  rapidly.  These  pirates  are  aware  of 
this,  and  therefore  prefer  to  take  their  prey  by  one 
fell  swoop.  You  may  see  one  of  them  prowling 
through  an  orchard,  with  the  yellowbirds  hovering 
about  him,  crying,  Pi-ty,  pi-ty,  in  the  most  de- 
sponding tone;  yet  he  seems  not  to  regard  them, 
knowing,  as  do  they,  that  in  the  close  branches  they 
are  as  safe  as  if  in  a  wall  of  adamant. 

August  is  the  month  of  the  high-sailing  hawks. 


THE   RETURN  OF  THE  BIRDS  33 

The  hen-hawk  is  the  most  noticeable.  He  likes 
the  haze  and  calm  of  these  long,  warm  days.  He 
is  a  bird  of  leisupe,  and  seems  always  at  his  ease. 
How  beautiful  and  majestic  are  his  movements! 
So  self-poised  and  easy,  such  an  entire  absence  of 
haste,  such  a  magnificent  amplitude  of  circles  and 
spirals,  such  a  haughty,  imperial  grace,  and,  occa- 
sionally, such  daring  aerial  evolutions! 

With  slow,  leisurely  movement,  rarely  vibrating 
his  pinions,  he  mounts  and  mounts  in  an  ascending 
spiral  till  he  appears  a  mere  speck  against  the  sum- 
mer sky;  then,  if  the  mood  seizes  him,  with  wings 
half -closed,  like  a  bent  bow,  he  will  cleave  the  air 
almost  perpendicularly,  as  if  intent  on  dashing 
himself  to  pieces  against  the  earth;  but  on  nearing 
the  ground  he  suddenly  mounts  again  on  broad, 
expanded  wing,  as  if  rebounding  upon  the  air,  and 
sails  leisurely  away.  It  is  the  sublimest  feat  of 
the  season.  One  holds  his  breath  till  he  sees  him 
rise  again. 

If  inclined  to  a  more  gradual  and  less  precipi- 
tous descent,  he  fixes  his  eye  on  some  distant  point 
in  the  earth  beneath  him,  and  thither  bends  his 
course.  He  is  still  almost  meteoric  in  his  speed 
and  boldness.  You  see  his  path  down  the  heavens, 
straight  as  a  line ;  if  near,  you  hear  the  rush  of  his 
wings;  his  shadow  hurtles  across  the  fields,  and  in 
an  instant  you  see  him  quietly  perched  upon  some 
low  tree  or  decayed  stub  in  a  swamp  or  meadow, 
with  reminiscences  of  frogs  and  mice  stirring  in  his 
maw. 


34  WAKE-ROBIN 

When  the  south  wind  blows,  it  is  a  study  to  see 
three  or  four  of  these  air-kings  at  the  head  of  the 
valley  far  up  toward  the  mountain,  balancing  and 
oscillating  upon  the  strong  current;  now  quite  sta- 
tionary, except  a  slight  tremulous  motion  like  the 
poise  of  a  rope-dancer,  then  rising  and  falling  in 
long  undulations,  and  seeming  to  resign  themselves 
passively  to  the  wind;  or,  again,  sailing  high  and 
level  far  above  the  mountain's  peak,  no  bluster  and 
haste,  but,  as  stated,  occasionally  a  terrible  earnest- 
ness and  speed.  Fire  at  one  as  he  sails  overhead, 
and,  unless  wounded  badly,  he  will  not  change  his 
course  or  gait. 

His  flight  is  a  perfect  picture  of  repose  in  mo- 
tion. It  strikes  the  eye  as  more  surprising  than 
the  flight  of  the  pigeon  and  swallow  even,  in  that 
the  effort  put  forth  is  so  uniform  and  delicate  as  to 
escape  observation,  giving  to  the  movement  an  air 
of  buoyancy  and  perpetuity,  the  effluence  of  power 
rather  than  the  conscious  application  of  it. 

The  calmness  and  dignity  of  this  hawk,  when 
attacked  by  crows  or  the  kingbird,  are  well  worthy 
of  him.  He  seldom  deigns  to  notice  his  noisy  and 
furious  antagonists,  but  deliberately  wheels  about 
in  that  aerial  spiral,  and  mounts  and  mounts  till 
his  pursuers  grow  dizzy  and  return  to  earth  again. 
It  is  quite  original,  this  mode  of  getting  rid  of  an 
unworthy  opponent,  rising  to  heights  where  the 
braggart  is  dazed  and  bewildered  and  loses  his  reck- 
oning !  I  am  not  sure  but  it  is  worthy  of  imitation. 

But   summer   wanes,    and    autumn    approaches. 


THE   RETURN  OF  THE  BIRDS  35 

The  songsters  of  the  seed-time  are  silent  at  the 
reaping  of  the  harvest.  Other  minstrels  take  up 
the  strain.  It  is  the  heyday  of  insect  life.  The 
day  is  canopied  with  musical  sound.  All  the  songs 
of  the  spring  and  summer  appear  to  be  floating, 
softened  and  refined,  in  the  upper  air.  The  birds, 
in  a  new  but  less  holiday  suit,  turn  their  faces 
southward.  The  swallows  flock  and  go;  the  bobo- 
links flock  and  go;  silently  and  unobserved,  the 
thrushes  go.  Autumn  arrives,  bringing  finches, 
warblers,  sparrows,  and  kinglets  from  the  north. 
Silently  the  procession  passes.  Yonder  hawk,  sail- 
ing peacefully  away  till  he  is  lost  in  the  horizon, 
is  a  symbol  of  the  closing  season  and  the  departing 
birds. 

1863. 


n 

IN  THE  HEMLOCKS 

"TV/TOST  people  receive  with  incredulity  a  state- 
•***•  ment  of  the  number  of  birds  that  annually 
visit  our  climate.  Very  few  even  are  aware  of  half 
the  number  that  spend  the  summer  in  their  own 
immediate  vicinity.  We  little  suspect,  when  we 
walk  in  the  woods,  whose  privacy  we  are  intruding 
upon,  —  what  rare  and  elegant  visitants  from  Mex- 
ico, from  Central  and  South  America,  and  from  the 
islands  of  the  sea,  are  holding  their  reunions  in  the 
branches  over  our  heads,  or  pursuing  their  pleasure 
on  the  ground  before  us. 

I  recall  the  altogether  admirable  and  shining 
family  which  Thoreau  dreamed  he  saw  in  the  upper 
chambers  of  Spaulding 's  woods,  which  Spaulding 
did  not  know  lived  there,  and  which  were  not  put 
out  when  Spaulding,  whistling,  drove  his  team 
through  their  lower  halls.  They  did  not  go  into 
society  in  the  village;  they  were  quite  well;  they 
had  sons  and  daughters;  they  neither  wove  nor 
spun;  there  was  a  sound  as  of  suppressed  hilarity. 

I  take  it  for  granted  that  the  forester  was  only 
saying  a  pretty  thing  of  the  birds,  though  I  have 
observed  that  it  does  sometimes  annoy  them  when 


38  WAKE-ROBIN 

Spaulding's  cart  rumbles  through  their  house.  Gen- 
erally, however,  they  are  as  unconscious  of  Spaul- 
ding  as  Spaulding  is  of  them. 

Walking  the  other  day  in  an  old  hemlock  wood, 
I  counted  over  forty  varieties  of  these  summer  vis- 
itants, many  of  them  common  to  other  woods  in 
the  vicinity,  but  quite  a  number  peculiar  to  these 
ancient  solitudes,  and  not  a  few  that  are  rare  in 
any  locality.  It  is  quite  unusual  to  find  so  large 
a  number  abiding  in  one  forest,  —  and  that  not  a 
large  one,  —  most  of  them  nesting  and  spending  the 
summer  there.  Many  of  those  I  observed  commonly 
pass  this  season  much  farther  north.  But  the  geo- 
graphical distribution  of  birds  is  rather  a  climatical 
one.  The  same  temperature,  though  under  differ- 
ent parallels,  usually  attracts  the  same  birds;  differ- 
ence in  altitude  being  equivalent  to  the  difference 
in  latitude.  A  given  height  above  the  sea-level 
under  the  parallel  of  thirty  degrees  may  have  the 
same  climate  as  places  under  that  of  thirty-five  de- 
grees, and  similar  flora  and  fauna.  At  the  head- 
waters of  the  Delaware,  where  I  write,  the  latitude 
is  that  of  Boston,  but  the  region  has  a  much  greater 
elevation,  and  hence  a  climate  that  compares  better 
with  the  northern  part  of  the  State  and  of  New 
England.  Half  a  day's  drive  to  the  southeast  brings 
me  down  into  quite  a  different  temperature,  with 
an  older  geological  formation,  different  forest  tim- 
ber, and  different  birds,  —  even  with  different  mam- 
mals. Neither  the  little  gray  rabbit  nor  the  little 
gray  fox  is  found  in  my  locality,  but  the  great 


IN  THE   HEMLOCKS  39 

northern  hare  and  the  red  fox  are.  In  the  last  cen- 
tury a  colony  of  beavers  dwelt  here,  though  the 
oldest  inhabitant  cannot  now  point  to  even  the  tra- 
ditional site  of  their  dams.  The  ancient  hemlocks, 
whither  I  propose  to  take  the  reader,  are  rich  in 
many  things  beside  birds.  Indeed,  their  wealth  in 
this  respect  is  owing  mainly,  no  doubt,  to  their  rank 
vegetable  growths,  their  fruitful  swamps,  and  their 
dark,  sheltered  retreats. 

Their  history  is  of  an  heroic  cast.  Ravished  and 
torn  by  the  tanner  in  his  thirst  for  bark,  preyed 
upon  by  the  lumberman,  assaulted  and  beaten  back 
by  the  settler,  still  their  spirit  has  never  been 
broken,  their  energies  never  paralyzed.  Not  many 
years  ago  a  public  highway  passed  through  them, 
but  it  was  at  no  time  a  tolerable  road;  trees  fell 
across  it,  mud  and  limbs  choked  it  up,  till  finally 
travelers  took  the  hint  and  went  around;  and  now, 
walking  along  its  deserted  course,  I  see  only  the 
footprints  of  coons,  foxes,  and  squirrels. 

Nature  loves  such  woods,  and  places  her  own  seal 
upon  them.  Here  she  shows  me  what  can  be  done 
with  ferns  and  mosses  and  lichens.  The  soil  is 
marrowy  and  full  of  innumerable  forests.  Standing 
in  these  fragrant  aisles,  I  feel  the  strength  of  the 
vegetable  kingdom,  and  am  awed  by  the  deep  and 
inscrutable  processes  of  life  going  on  so  silently  about 
me. 

^No  hostile  forms  with  axe  or  spud  now  visit  these 
solitudes.  The  cows  have  half-hidden  ways  through 
them,  and  know  where  the  best  browsing  is  to  be 


40  WAKE-KOBIN 

had.  In  spring  the  farmer  repairs  to  their  border- 
ing of  maples  to  make  sugar;  in  July  and  August 
women  and  boys  from  all  the  country  about  pene- 
trate the  old  Barkpeelings  for  raspberries  and  black- 
berries; and  I  know  a  youth  who  wonderingly 
follows  their  languid  stream  casting  for  trout. 

In  like  spirit,  alert  and  buoyant,  on  this  bright 
June  morning  go  I  also  to  reap  my  harvest,  —  pur- 
suing a  sweet  more  delectable  than  sugar,  fruit  more 
savory  than  berries,  and  game  for  another  palate 
than  that  tickled  by  trout. 

June,  of  all  the  months,  the  student  of  ornithol- 
ogy can  least  afford  to  lose.  Most  birds  are  nesting 
then,  and  in  full  song  and  plumage.  And  what  is 
a  bird  without  its  song  ?  Do  we  not  wait  for  the 
stranger  to  speak?  It  seems  to  me  that  I  do  not 
know  a  bird  till  I  have  heard  its  voice;  then  I 
come  nearer  it  at  once,  and  it  possesses  a  human 
interest  to  me.  I  have  met  the  gray-cheeked  thrush 
in  the  woods,  and  held  him  in  my  hand;  still  I  do 
not  know  him.  The  silence  of  the  cedar-bird  throws 
a  mystery  about  him  which  neither  his  good  looks 
nor  his  petty  larcenies  in  cherry  time  can  dispel. 
A  bird's  song  contains  a  clew  to  its  life,  and  estab- 
lishes a  sympathy,  an  understanding,  between  itself 
and  the  listener. 

I  descend  a  steep  hill,  and  approach  the  hemlocks 
through  a  large  sugar-bush.  When  .twenty  rods 
distant,  I  hear  all  along  the  line  of  the  forest 
the  incessant  warble  of  the  red-eyed  vireo,  cheerful 
and  happy  as  the  merry  whistle  of  a  schoolboy. 


IN  THE   HEMLOCKS  41 

He  is  one  of  our  most  common  and  widely  dis- 
tributed birds.  Approach  any  forest  at  any  hour 
of  the  day,  in  any  kind  of  weather,  from  May  to 
August,  in  any  of  the  Middle  or  Eastern  districts, 
and  the  chances  are  that  the  first  note  you  hear  will 
be  his.  Rain  or  shine,  before  noon  or  after,  in  the 
deep  forest  or  in  the  village  grove,  —  when  it  is  too 
hot  for  the  thrushes  or  too  cold  and  windy  for  the 
warblers,  —  it  is  never  out  of  time  or  place  for  this 
little  minstrel  to  indulge  his  cheerful  strain.  In 
the  deep  wilds  of  the  Adirondacks,  where  few  birds 
are  seen  and  fewer  heard,  his  note  was  almost  con- 
stantly in  my  ear.  Always  busy,  making  it  a  point 
never  to  suspend  for  one  moment  his  occupation  to 
indulge  his  musical  taste,  his  lay  is  that  of  industry 
and  contentment.  There  is  nothing  plaintive  or 
especially  musical  in  his  performance,  but  the  senti- 
ment expressed  is  eminently  that  of  cheerfulness. 
Indeed,  the  songs  of  most  birds  have  some  human 
significance,  which,  I  think,  is  the  source  of  the 
delight  we  take  in  them.  The  song  of  the  bobolink 
to  me  expresses  hilarity;  the  song  sparrow's,  faith; 
the  bluebird's,  love;  the  catbird's,  pride;  the  white- 
eyed  flycatcher's,  self-consciousness;  that  of  the 
hermit  thrush,  spiritual  serenity:  while  there  is 
something  military  in  the  call  of  the  robin. 

The  red-eye  is  classed  among  the  flycatchers  by 
some  writers,  but  is  much  more  of  a  worm- eater, 
and  has  few  of  the  traits  or  habits  of  the  Muscicapa 
or  the  true  Sylvia.  He  resembles  somewhat  the 
warbling  vireo,  and  the  two  birds  are  often  con- 


42  WAKE-ROBIN 

founded  by  careless  observers.  Both  warble  in  the 
same  cheerful  strain,  but  the  latter  more  continu- 
ously and  rapidly.  The  red-eye  is  a  larger,  slimmer 
bird,  with  a  faint  bluish  crown,  and  a  light  line 
over  the  eye.  His  movements  are  peculiar.  You 
may  see  him  hopping  among  the  limbs,  exploring 
the  under  side  of  the  leaves,  peering  to  the  right 
and  left,  now  flitting  a  few  feet,  now  hopping  as 
many,  and  warbling  incessantly,  occasionally  in  a 
subdued  tone,  which  sounds  from  a  very  indefinite 
distance.  When  he  has  found  a  worm  to  his  liking, 
he  turns  lengthwise  of  the  limb  and  bruises  its  head 
with  his  beak  before  devouring  it. 

As  I  enter  the  woods  the  slate-colored  snowbird 
starts  up  before  me  and  chirps  sharply.  His  protest 
when  thus  disturbed  is  almost  metallic  in  its  sharp- 
ness. He  breeds  here,  and  is  not  esteemed  a  snow- 
bird at  all,  as  he  disappears  at  the  near  approach 
of  winter,  and  returns  again  in  spring,  like  the 
song  sparrow,  and  is  not  in  any  way  associated  with 
the  cold  and  the  snow.  So  different  are  the  habits 
of  birds  in  different  localities.  Even  the  crow  does 
not  whiter  here,  and  is  seldom  seen  after  December 
or  before  March. 

The  snowbird,  or  "black  chipping-bird, "  as  it 
is  known  among  the  farmers,  is  the  finest  architect 
of  any  of  the  ground-builders  known  to  me.  The 
site  of  its  nest  is  usually  some  low  bank  by  the 
roadside,  near  a  wood.  In  a  slight  excavation, 
with  a  partially  concealed  entrance,  the  exquisite 
structure  is  placed.  Horse  and  cow  hair  are  plen- 


IN  THE   HEMLOCKS  43 

tifully  used,  imparting  to  the  interior  of  the  nest 
great  symmetry  and  firmness  as  well  as  softness. 

Passing  down  through  the  maple  arches,  barely 
pausing  to  observe  the  antics  of  a  trio  of  squirrels, 
—  two  gray  ones  and  a  black  one,  —  I  cross  an  an- 
cient brush  fence  and  am  fairly  within  the  old  hem- 
locks, and  in  one  of  the  most  primitive,  undisturbed 
nooks.  In  the  deep  moss  I  tread  as  with  muffled 
feet,  and  the  pupils  of  my  eyes  dilate  in  the  dim, 
almost  religious  light.  The  irreverent  red  squirrels, 
however,  run  and  snicker  at  my  approach,  or  mock 
the  solitude  with  their  ridiculous  chattering  and 
frisking. 

This  nook  is  the  chosen  haunt  of  the  whiter 
wren.  This  is  the  only  place  and  these  the  only 
woods  in  which  I  find  him  in  this  vicinity.  His 
voice  fills  these  dim  aisles,  as  if  aided  by  some 
marvelous  sounding-board.  Indeed,  his  song  is  very 
strong  for  so  small  a  bird,  and  unites  in  a  remark- 
able degree  brilliancy  and  plaintiveness.  I  think 
of  a  tremulous  vibrating  tongue  of  silver.  You 
may  know  it  is  the  song  of  a  wren,  from  its  gush- 
ing lyrical  character;  but  you  must  needs  look  sharp 
to  see  the  little  minstrel,  especially  while  in  the 
act  of  singing.  He  is  nearly  the  color  of  the  ground 
and  the  leaves;  he  never  ascends  the  tall  trees,  but 
keeps  low,  flitting  from  stump  to  stump  and  from 
root  to  root,  dodging  in  and  out  of  his  hiding- 
places,  and  watching  all  intruders  with  a  suspicious 
eye.  He  has  a  very  pert,  almost  comical  look. 
His  tail  stands  more  than  perpendicular:  it  points 


44  WAKE-ROBIN 

straight  toward  his  head.  He  is  the  least  ostenta- 
tious singer  I  know  of.  He  does  not  strike  an 
attitude,  and  lift  up  his  head  in  preparation,  and, 
as  it  were,  clear  his  throat;  but  sits  there  on  a  log 
and  pours  out  his  music,  looking  straight  before 
him,  or  even  down  at  the  ground.  As  a  songster, 
he  has  but  few  superiors.  I  do  not  hear  him  after 
the  first  week  in  July. 

While  sitting  on  this  soft- cushioned  log,  tasting 
the  pungent  acidulous  wood-sorrel,  the  blossoms  of 
which,  large  and  pink- veined,  rise  everywhere  above 
the  moss,  a  rufous-colored  bird  flies  quickly  past, 
and,  alighting  on  a  low  limb  a  few  rods  off,  salutes 
me  with  "Whew!  Whew!"  or"Whoit!  Whoit!" 
almost  as  you  would  whistle  for  your  dog.  I  see 
by  his  impulsive,  graceful  movements,  and  his  dimly 
speckled  breast,  that  it  is  a  thrush.  Presently  he 
utters  a  few  soft,  mellow,  flute-like  notes,  one  of 
the  most  simple  expressions  of  melody  to  be  heard, 
and  scuds  away,  and  I  see  it  is  the  veery,  or  Wil- 
son's thrush.  He  is  the  least  of  the  thrushes  in 
size,  being  about  that  of  the  common  bluebird,  and 
he  may  be  distinguished  from  his  relatives  by  the 
dimness  of  the  spots  upon  his  breast.  The  wood 
thrush  has  very  clear,  distinct  oval  spots  on  a  white 
ground;  in  the  hermit,  the  spots  run  more  into 
lines,  on  a  ground  of  a  faint  bluish  white ;  in  the 
veery,  the  marks  are  almost  obsolete,  and  a  few  rods 
off  his  breast  presents  only  a  dull  yellowish  appear- 
ance. To  get  a  good  view  of  him  you  have  only  to 
Bit  down  in  his  haunts,  as  in  such  cases  he  seema 
equally  anxious  to  get  a  good  view  of  you. 


IN   THE   HEMLOCKS  46 

From  those  tall  hemlocks  proceeds  a  very  fine 
insect-like  warble,  and  occasionally  I  see  a  spray 
tremble,  or  catch  the  flit  of  a  wing.  I  watch  and 
watch  till  my  head  grows  dizzy  and  my  neck  is  in 
danger  of  permanent  displacement,  and  still  do  not 
get  a  good  view.  Presently  the  bird  darts,  or,  as 
it  seems,  falls  down  a  few  feet  in  pursuit  of  a  fly 
or  a  moth,  and  I  see  the  whole  of  it,  but  in  the 
dim  light  am  undecided.  It  is  for  such  emergen- 
cies that  I  have  brought  my  gun.  A  bird  in  the 
hand  is  worth  half  a  dozen  in  the  bush,  even  for 
ornithological  purposes;  and  no  sure  and  rapid  pro- 
gress can  be  made  in  the  study  without  taking  life, 
without  procuring  specimens.  This  bird  is  a  war- 
bler, plainly  enough,  from  his  habits  and  manner; 
but  what  kind  of  warbler  1  Look  on  him  and  name 
him:  a  deep  orange  or  flame-colored  throat  and 
breast;  the  same  color  showing  also  in  a  line  over 
the  eye  and  in  his  crown;  back  variegated  black 
and  white.  The  female  is  less  marked  and  bril- 
liant. The  orange- throated  warbler  would  seem  to 
be  his  right  name,  his  characteristic  cognomen;  but 
no,  he  is  doomed  to  wear  the  name  of  some  discov- 
erer,  perhaps  the  first  who  robbed  his  nest  or  rifled 
him  of  his  mate,  —  Blackburn ;  hence  Blackburnian 
warbler.  The  burn  seems  appropriate  enough,  for 
in  these  dark  evergreens  his  throat  and  breast  show 
like  flame.  He  has  a  very  fine  warble,  suggesting 
that  of  the  redstart,  but  not  especially  musical.  I 
find  him  in  no  other  woods  in  this  vicinity. 

I  am  attracted  by  another  warble  in  the  same 


46  WAKE-ROBIN 

locality,  and  experience  a  like  difficulty  in  getting 
a  good  view  of  the  author  of  it.  It  is  quite  a 
noticeable  strain,  sharp  and  sibilant,  and  sounds 
well  amid  the  old  trees.  In  the  upland  woods  of 
beech  and  maple  it  is  a  more  familiar  sound  than 
in  these  solitudes.  On  taking  the  bird  in  hand, 
one  cannot  help  exclaiming,  "  How  beautiful !  "  So 
tiny  and  elegant,  the  smallest  of  the  warblers;  a 
delicate  blue  back,  with  a  slight  bronze- colored  tri- 
angular spot  between  the  shoulders;  upper  mandible 
black;  lower  mandible  yellow  as  gold;  throat  yel- 
low, becoming  a  dark  bronze  on  the  breast.  Blue 
yellow-back  he  is  called,  though  the  yellow  is  much 
nearer  a  bronze.  He  is  remarkably  delicate  and 
beautiful,  —  the  handsomest  as  he  is  the  smallest 
of  the  warblers  known  to  me.  It  is  never  with- 
out surprise  that  I  find  amid  these  rugged,  savage 
aspects  of  nature  creatures  so  fairy  and  delicate. 
But  such  is  the  law.  Go  to  the  sea  or  climb  the 
mountain,  and  with  the  ruggedest  and  the  savagest 
you  will  find  likewise  the  fairest  and  the  most  deli- 
cate. The  greatness  and  the  minuteness  of  nature 
pass  all  understanding. 

Ever  since  I  entered  the  woods,  even  while  lis- 
tening to  the  lesser  songsters,  or  contemplating  the 
silent  forms  about  me,  a  strain  has  reached  my  ears 
from  out  the  depths  of  the  forest  that  to  me  is  the 
finest  sound  in  nature,  —  the  song  of  tho  hermit 
thrush.  I  often  hear  him  thus  a  long  way  off, 
sometimes  over  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  when 
only  the  stronger  and  more  perfect  parts  <af  his 


IN  THE   HEMLOCKS  47 

music  reach  me;  and  through  the  general  chorus  of 
wrens  and  warblers  I  detect  this  sound  rising  pure 
and  serene,  as  if  a  spirit  from  some  remote  height 
were  slowly  chanting  a  divine  accompaniment.  This 
song  appeals  to  the  sentiment  of  the  beautiful  in 
me,  and  suggests  a  serene  religious  beatitude  as  no 
other  sound  in  nature  does.  It  is  perhaps  more  of 
an  evening  than  a  morning  hymn,  though  I  hear  it 
at  all  hours  of  the  day.  It  is  very  simple,  and  I 
can  hardly  tell  the  secret  of  its  charm.  "  0  spheral, 
spheral!  "  he  seems  to  say;  "O  holy,  holy!  0  clear 
away,  clear  away!  0  clear  up,  clear  up!"  inter- 
spersed with  the  finest  trills  and  the  most  delicate 
preludes.  It  is  not  a  proud,  gorgeous  strain,  like 
the  tanager's  or  the  grosbeak's;  suggests  no  pas- 
sion or  emotion,  —  nothing  personal,  —  but  seems 
to  be  the  voice  of  that  calm,  sweet  solemnity  one 
attains  to  in  his  best  moments.  It  realizes  a  peace 
and  a  deep,  solemn  joy  that  only  the  finest  souls 
may  know.  A  few  nights  ago  I  ascended  a  moun- 
tain to  see  the  world  by  moonlight,  and  when  near 
the  summit  the  hermit  commenced  his  evening 
hymn  a  few  rods  from  me.  Listening  to  this 
strain  on  the  lone  mountain,  with  the  full  moon 
just  rounded  from  the  horizon,  the  pomp  of  your 
cities  and  the  pride  of  your  civilization  seemed  tri- 
vial and  cheap. 

I  have  seldom  known  two  of  these  birds  to  be 
singing  at  the  same  time  in  the  same  locality,  rival- 
ing each  other,  like  the  wood  thrush  or  the  veery. 
Shooting  one  from  a  tree,  I  have  observed  another 


48  WAKE-ROBIN 

take  up  the  strain  from  almost  the  identical  percii 
in  less  than  ten  minutes  afterward.  Later  in  the 
day,  when  I  had  penetrated  the  heart  of  the  old 
Barkpeeling,  I  came  suddenly  upon  one  singing  from 
a  low  stump,  and  for  a  wonder  he  did  not  seem 
alarn\ed,  but  lifted  up  his  divine  voice  as  if  his 
privacy  was  undisturbed.  I  open  his  beak  and  find 
the  inside  yellow  as  gold.  I  was  prepared  to  find 
it  inlaid  with  pearls  and  diamonds,  or  to  see  an 
angel  issue  from  it. 

He  is  not  much  in  the  books.  Indeed,  I  am 
acquainted  with  scarcely  any  writer  on  ornithology 
whose  head  is  not  muddled  on  the  subject  of  our 
three  prevailing  song-thrushes,  confounding  either 
their  figures  or  their  songs.  A  writer  in  the  "  At- 
lantic " *  gravely  tells  us  the  wood  thrush  is  some- 
times called  the  hermit,  and  then,  after  describing 
the  song  of  the  hermit  with  great  beauty  and  cor- 
rectness, coolly  ascribes  it  to  the  veery !  The  new 
Cyclopaedia,  fresh  from  the  study  of  Audubon,  says 
the  hermit's  song  consists  of  a  single  plaintive  note, 
and  that  the  veery 's  resembles  that  of  the  wood 
thrush !  The  hermit  thrush  may  be  easily  identified 
by  his  color;  his  back  being  a  clear  olive-brown  be- 
coming rufous  on  his  rump  and  tail.  A  quill  from 
his  wing  placed  beside  one  from  his  tail  on  a  dark 
ground  presents  quite  a  marked  contrast. 

I  walk  along  the  old  road,  and  note  the  tracks  in 
the  thin  layer  of  mud.  When  do  these  creatures 
travel  here?  I  have  never  yet  chanced  to  meet 
l  For  December,  1858. 


IN  THE   HEMLOCKS  49 

one.  Here  a  partridge  has  set  its  foot;  there,  a 
woodcock ;  here,  a  squirrel  or  mink ;  there,  a  skunk ; 
there,  a  fox.  What  a  clear,  nervous  track  reynard 
makes!  how  easy  to  distinguish  it  from  that  of  a 
little  dog,  —  it  is  so  sharply  cut  and  defined !  A 
dog's  track  is  coarse  and  clumsy  beside  it.  There 
is  as  much  wildness  in  the  track  of  an  animal  as  in 
its  voice.  Is  a  deer's  track  like  a  sheep's  or  a 
goat's?  What  winged-footed  fleetness  and  agility 
may  be  inferred  from  the  sharp,  braided  track  of 
the  gray  squirrel  upon  the  new  snow!  Ah!  in 
nature  is  the  best  discipline.  How  wood-life  sharp- 
ens the  senses,  giving  a  new  power  to  the  eye,  the 
ear,  the  nose!  And  are  not  the  rarest  and  most 
exquisite  songsters  wood-birds  ? 

Everywhere  in  these  solitudes  I  am  greeted  with 
the  pensive,  almost  pathetic  note  of  the  wood 
pewee.  The  pewees  are  the  true  flycatchers,  and 
are  easily  identified.  They  are  very  characteristic 
birds,  have  strong  family  traits  and  pugnacious  dis- 
positions. They  are  the  least  attractive  or  elegant 
birds  of  our  fields  or  forest.  Sharp-shouldered, 
big-headed,  short-legged,  of  no  particular  color,  of 
little  elegance  in  flight  or  movement,  with  a  dis- 
agreeable flirt  of  the  tail,  always  quarreling  with 
their  neighbors  and  with  one  another,  no  birds  are 
so  little  calculated  to  excite  pleasurable  emotions  in 
the  beholder,  or  to  become  objects  of  human  inter- 
est and  affection.  The  kingbird  is  the  best  dressed 
member  of  the  family,  but  he  is  a  braggart;  and, 
though  always  snubbing  his  neighbors,  is  an  arrant 


50  WAKE-ROBIN 

coward,  and  shows  the  white  feather  at  the  slightest 
display  of  pluck  in  his  antagonist.  I  have  seen  him 
turn  tail  to  a  swallow,  and  have  known  the  little 
pewee  in  question  to  whip  him  beautifully.  From 
the  great-crested  to  the  little  green  flycatcher,  their 
ways  and  general  habits  are  the  same.  Slow  in 
flying  from  point  to  point,  they  yet  have  a  wonder- 
ful quickness,  and  snap  up  the  fleetest  insects  with 
little  apparent  effort.  There  is  a  constant  play  of 
quick,  nervous  movements  underneath  their  outer 
show  of  calmness  and  stolidity.  They  do  not  scour 
the  limbs  and  trees  like  the  warblers,  but,  perched 
upon  the  middle  branches,  wait,  like  true  hunters, 
for  the  game  to  come  along.  There  is  often  a  very 
audible  snap  of  the  beak  as  they  seize  their  prey. 

The  wood  pewee,  the  prevailing  species  in  this 
locality,  arrests  your  attention  by  his  sweet,  pathetic 
cry.  There  is  room  for  it  also  in  the  deep  woods, 
as  well  as  for  the  more  prolonged  and  elevated 
strains. 

Its  relative,  the  phoebe-bird,  builds  an  exquisite 
nest  of  moss  on  the  side  of  some  shelving  cliff  or 
overhanging  rock.  The  other  day,  passing  by  a 
ledge  near  the  top  of  a  mountain  in  a  singularly 
desolate  locality,  my  eye  rested  upon  one  of  these 
structures,  looking  precisely  as  if  it  grew  there,  so 
in  keeping  was  it  with  the  mossy  character  of  the 
rock,  and  I  have  had  a  growing  affection  for  the 
bird  ever  since.  The  rock  seemed  to  love  the  nest 
and  to  claim  it  as  its  own.  I  said,  what  a  lesson 
in  architecture  is  here !  Here  is  a  house  that  was 


IN  THE   HEMLOCKS  51 

built,  but  with  such  loving  care  and  such  beautiful 
adaptation  of  the  means  to  the  end,  that  it  looks 
like  a  product  of  nature.  The  same  wise  economy 
is  noticeable  in  the  nests  of  all  birds.  No  bird 
could  paint  its  house  white  or  red,  or  add  aught  for 
show. 

At  one  point  in  the  grayest,  most  shaggy  part  of 
the  woods,  I  come  suddenly  upon  a  brood  of  screech 
owls,  full  grown,  sitting  together  upon  a  dry,  moss- 
draped  limb,  but  a  few  feet  from  the  ground.  I 
pause  within  four  or  five  yards  of  them  and  am  look- 
ing about  me,  when  my  eye  alights  upon  these  gray, 
motionless  figures.  They  sit  perfectly  upright,  some 
with  their  backs  and  some  with  their  breasts  toward 
me,  but  every  head  turned  squarely  in  my  direction. 
Their  eyes  are  closed  to  a  mere  black  line;  through 
this  crack  they  are  watching  me,  evidently  thinking 
themselves  unobserved.  The  spectacle  is  weird  and 
grotesque,  and  suggests  something  impish  and  un- 
canny. It  is  a  new  effect,  the  night  side  of  the 
woods  by  daylight.  After  observing  them  a '  mo- 
ment I  take  a  single  step  toward  them,  when,  quick 
as  thought,  their  eyes  fly  wide  open,  their  attitude 
is  changed,  they  bend,  some  this  way,  some  that, 
and,  instinct  with  life  and  motion,  stare  wildly 
around  them.  Another  step,  and  they  all  take 
flight  but  one,  which  stoops  low  on  the  branch,  and 
with  the  look  of  a  frightened  cat  regards  me  for  a 
few  seconds  over  its  shoulder.  They  fly  swiftly 
and  softly,  and  disperse  through  the  trees.  I  shoot 
one,  which  is  of  a  tawny  red  tint,  like  that  figured 


52  WAKE-ROBIN 

by  Wilson.  It  is  a  singular  fact  that  the  plumage 
of  these  owls  presents  two  totally  distinct  phases, 
which  "have  no  relation  to  sex,  age,  or  season," 
one  being  an  ashen  gray,  the  other  a  bright  rufous. 

Coming  to  a  drier  and  less  mossy  place  in  the 
woods,  I  am  amused  with  the  golden- crowned  thrush, 
—  which,  however,  is  no  thrush  at  all,  but  a  war- 
bler. He  walks  on  the  ground  ahead  of  me  with 
such  an  easy  gliding  motion,  and  with  such  an 
unconscious,  preoccupied  air,  jerking  his  head  like 
a  hen  or  a  partridge,  now  hurrying,  now  slackening 
his  pace,  that  I  pause  to  observe  him.  I  sit  down, 
he  pauses  to  observe  me,  and  extends  his  pretty 
ramblings  on  all  sides,  apparently  very  much  en- 
grossed with  his  own  affairs,  but  never  losing  sight 
of  me.  But  few  of  the  birds  are  walkers,  most 
being  hoppers,  like  the  robin. 

Satisfied  that  I  have  no  hostile  intentions,  the 
pretty  pedestrian  mounts  a  limb  a  few  feet  from  the 
ground,  and  gives  me  the  benefit  of  one  of  his  musi- 
cal performances,  a  sort  of  accelerating  chant.  Com- 
mencing in  a  very  low  key,  which  makes  him  seem 
at  a  very  uncertain  distance,  he  grows  louder  and 
louder  till  his  body  quakes  and  his  chant  runs  into 
a  shriek,  ringing  in  my  ear  with  a  peculiar  sharp- 
ness. This  lay  may  be  represented  thus:  "Teacher, 
teacher,  TEACHER,  TEACHER,  TEA  CHER  !  "  - 
the  accent  on  the  first  syllable  and  each  word  uttered 
with  increased  force  and  shrillness.  No  writer  with 
whom  I  am  acquainted  gives  him  credit  for  more 
oiusical  ability  than  is  displayed  in  this  strain. 


IN  THE  HEMLOCKS  53 

Yet  in  this  the  half  is  not  told.  He  has  a  far  rarer 
song,  which  he  reserves  for  some  nymph  whom  he 
meets  in  the  air.  Mounting  by  easy  nights  to  the 
top  of  the  tallest  tree,  he  launches  into  the  air  with 
a  sort  of  suspended,  hovering  flight,  like  certain 
of  the  finches,  and  bursts  into  a  perfect  ecstasy  of 
song,  —  clear,  ringing,  copious,  rivaling  the  gold- 
finch's  in  vivacity,  and  the  linnet's  in  melody. 
This  strain  is  one  of  the  rarest  bits  of  bird  melody 
to  be  heard,  and  is  oftenest  indulged  in  late  in  the 
afternoon  or  after  sundown.  Over  the  woods,  hid 
from  view,  the  ecstatic  singer  warbles  his  finest 
strain.  In  this  song  you  instantly  detect  his  rela- 
tionship to  the  water- wagtail,  —  erroneously  called 
water- thrush,  — whose  song  is  likewise  a  sudden 
burst,  full  and  ringing,  and  with  a  tone  of  youthful 
joyousness  in  it,  as  if  the  bird  had  just  had  some 
unexpected  good  fortune.  For  nearly  two  years  this 
strain  of  the  pretty  walker  was  little  more  than  a 
disembodied  voice  to  me,  and  I  was  puzzled  by  it 
as  Thoreau  by  his  mysterious  night- warbler,  which, 
by  the  way,  I  suspect  was  no  new  bird  at  all,  but 
one  he  was  otherwise  familiar  with.  The  little  bird 
himself  seems  disposed  to  keep  the  matter  a  secret, 
and  improves  every  opportunity  to  repeat  before  you 
his  shrill,  accelerating  lay,  as  if  this  were  quite 
enough  and  all  he  laid  claim  to.  Still,  I  trust  I 
am  betraying  no  confidence  in  making  the  matter 
public  here.  I  think  this  is  preeminently  his  love- 
song,  as  I  hear  it  oftenest  about  the  mating  season. 
I  have  caught  half-suppressed  bursts  of  it  from  two 


54  WAKE-ROBIN 

males  chasing  each  other  with  fearful  speed  through 
the  forest. 

Turning  to  the  left  from  the  old  road,  I  wander 
over  soft  logs  and  gray  yielding  de'bris,  across  the 
little  trout  brook,  until  I  emerge  in  the  overgrown 
Barkpeeling,  —  pausing  now  and  then  on  the  way 
to  admire  a  small,  solitary  white  flower  which  rises 
above  the  moss,  with  radical,  heart-shaped  leaves, 
and  a  blossom  precisely  like  the  liverwort  except 
in  color,  but  which  is  not  put  down  in  my  botany, 
—  or  to  observe  the  ferns,  of  which  I  count  six 
varieties,  some  gigantic  ones  nearly  shoulder-high. 

At  the  foot  of  a  rough,  scraggy  yellow  birch,  on  a 
bank  of  club-moss,  so  richly  inlaid  with  partridge- 
berry  and  curious  shining  leaves  —  with  here  and 
there  in  the  bordering  a  spire  of  the  false  winter- 
green  strung  with  faint  pink  flowers  and  exhaling 
the  breath  of  a  May  orchard  —  that  it  looks  too 
costly  a  couch  for  such  an  idler,  I  recline  to  note 
what  transpires.  The  sun  is  just  past  the  meridian, 
and  the  afternoon  chorus  is  not  yet  in  full  tune. 
Most  birds  sing  with  the  greatest  spirit  and  vivacity 
in  the  forenoon,  though  there  are  occasional  bursts 
later  in  the  day  in  which  nearly  all  voices  join; 
while  it  is  not  till  the  twilight  that  the  full  power 
and  solemnity  of  the  thrush's  hymn  is  felt. 

My  attention  is  soon  arrested  by  a  pair  of  hum- 
mingbirds, the  ruby-throated,  disporting  themselves 
in  a  low  bush  a  few  yards  from  me.  The  female 
takes  shelter  amid  the  branches,  and  squeaks  exult- 
ingly  as  the  male,  circling  above,  dives  down  as  if 


IN  THE   HEMLOCKS  55 

to  dislodge  her.  Seeing  me,  he  drops  like  a  feather 
on  a  slender  twig  and  in  a  moment  both  are  gone. 
Then,  as  if  by  a  preconcerted  signal,  the  throats  are 
all  atune.  I  lie  on  my  back  with  eyes  half  closed, 
and  analyze  the  chorus  of  warblers,  thrushes,  finches, 
and  flycatchers;  while,  soaring  above  all,  a  little  with- 
drawn and  alone  rises  the  divine  contralto  of  the 
hermit.  That  richly  modulated  warble  proceeding 
from  the  top  of  yonder  birch,  and  which  unpracticed 
ears  would  mistake  for  the  voice  of  the  scarlet  tana- 
ger,  comes  from  that  rare  visitant,  the  rose-breasted 
grosbeak.  It  is  a  strong,  vivacious  strain,  a  bright 
noonday  song,  full  of  health  and  assurance,  indi- 
cating fine  talents  in  the  performer,  but  not  genius. 
As  I  come  up  under  the  tree  he  casts  his  eye  down 
at  me,  but  continues  his  song.  This  bird  is  said  to 
be  quite  common  in  the  Northwest,  but  he  is  rare 
in  the  Eastern  districts.  His  beak  is  disproportion- 
ately large  and  heavy,  like  a  huge  nose,  which 
slightly  mars  his  good  looks;  but  Nature  has  made 
it  up  to  him  in  a  blush  rose  upon  his  breast,  and 
the  most  delicate  of  pink  linings  to  the  under  side 
of  his  wings.  His  back  is  variegated  black  and 
white,  and  when  flying  low  the  white  shows  con- 
spicuously. If  he  passed  over  your  head,  you  would 
note  the  delicate  flush  under  his  wings. 

That  bit  of  bright  scarlet  on  yonder  dead  hem- 
lock, glowing  like  a  live  coal  against  the  dark  back- 
ground, seeming  almost  too  brilliant  for  the  severe 
northern  climate,  is  his  relative,  the  scarlet  tanager. 
I  occasionally  meet  him  in  the  deep  hemlocks,  and 


56  WAKE-ROBIN 

know  no  stronger  contrast  in  nature.  I  almost  feai 
he  will  kindle  the  dry  limb  on  which  he  alights. 
He  is  quite  a  solitary  bird,  and  in  this  section  seems 
to  prefer  the  high,  remote  woods,  even  going  quite 
to  the  mountain's  top.  Indeed,  the  event  of  my 
last  visit  to  the  mountain  was  meeting  one  of  these 
brilliant  creatures  near  the  summit,  in  full  song. 
The  breeze  carried  the  notes  far  and  wide.  He 
seemed  to  enjoy  the  elevation,  and  I  imagined  his 
song  had  more  scope  and  freedom  than  usual.  When 
he  had  flown  far  down  the  mountain- side,  the  breeze 
still  brought  me  his  finest  notes.  In  plumage  he 
is  the  most  brilliant  bird  we  have.  The  bluebird 
is  not  entirely  blue;  nor  will  the  indigo- bird  bear  a 
close  inspection,  nor  the  goldfinch,  nor  the  summer 
redbird.  But  the  tanager  loses  nothing  by  a  near 
view;  the  deep  scarlet  of  his  body  and  the  black 
of  his  wings  and  tail  are  quite  perfect.  This  is  his 
holiday  suit ;  in  the  fall  he  becomes  a  dull  yellowish 
green,  —  the  color  of  the  female  the  whole  season. 

One  of  the  leading  songsters  in  this  choir  of  the 
old  Barkpeeling  is  the  purple  finch  or  linnet.  He 
sits  somewhat  apart,  usually  on  a  dead  hemlock,  and 
warbles  most  exquisitely.  He  is  one  of  our  finest 
songsters,  and  stands  at  the  head  of  the  finches,  as 
the  hermit  at  the  head  -  of  the  thrushes.  His  song 
approaches  an  ecstasy,  and,  with  the  exception  of  the 
winter  wren's,  is  the  most  rapid  and  copious  strain 
to  be  heard  in  these  woods.  It  is  quite  destitute 
of  the  trills  and  the  liquid,  silvery,  bubbling  notes 
that  characterize  the  wren's;  but  there  runs  through 


IN  THE   HEMLOCKS  57 

it  a  round,  richly  modulated  whistle,  very  sweet  and 
very  pleasing.  The  call  of  the  robin  is  brought  in 
at  a  certain  point  with  marked  effect,  and,  throughout, 
the  variety  is  so  great  and  the  strain  so  rapid  that  the 
impression  is  as  of  two  or  three  birds  singing  at  the 
same  time.  He  is  not  common  here,  and  I  only 
find  him  in  these  or  similar  woods.  His  color  is 
peculiar,  and  looks  as  if  it  might  have  been  imparted 
by  dipping  a  brown  bird  in  diluted  pokeberry  juice. 
Two  or  three  more  dippings  would  have  made  the 
purple  complete.  The  female  is  the  color  of  the 
song  sparrow,  a  little  larger,  with  heavier  beak,  and 
tail  much  more  forked. 

In  a  little  opening  quite  free  from  brush  and 
trees,  I  step  down  to  bathe  my  hands  in  the  brook, 
when  a  small,  light  slate-colored  bird  nutters  out  of 
the  bank,  not  three  feet  from  my  head,  as  I  stoop 
down,  and,  as  if  severely  lamed  or  injured,  nutters 
through  the  grass  and  into  the  nearest  bush.  As  I 
do  not  follow,  but  remain  near  the  nest,  she  chips 
sharply,  which  brings  the  male,  and  I  see  it  is  the 
speckled  Canada  warbler.  I  find  no  authority  in 
the  books  for  this  bird  to  build  upon  the  ground, 
yet  here  is  the  nest,  made  chiefly  of  dry  grass,  set  in 
a  slight  excavation  in  the  bank  not  two  feet  from 
the  water,  and  looking  a  little  perilous  to  anything 
but  ducklings  or  sandpipers.  There  are  two  young 
birds  and  one  little  speckled  egg  just  pipped.  But 
how  is  this?  what  mystery  is  here?  One  nestling 
is  much  larger  than  the  other,  monopolizes  most  of 
the  nest,  and  lifts  its  open  mouth  far  above  that 


68  WAKE-ROBIN 

of  its  companion,  though  obviously  both  are  of  the 
same  age,  not  more  than  a  day  old.  Ah!  I  see; 
the  old  trick  of  the  cow  bunting,  with  a  stinging 
human  significance.  Taking  the  interloper  by  the 
nape  of  the  neck,  I  deliberately  drop  it  into  the 
water,  but  not  without  a  pang,  as  I  see  its  naked 
form,  convulsed  with  chills,  float  down  stream. 
Cruel?  So  is  Nature  cruel.  I  take  one  life  to 
save  two.  In  less  than  two  days  this  pot-bellied 
intruder  would  have  caused  the  death  of  the  two 
rightful  occupants  of  the  nest;  so  I  step  in  and 
turn  things  into  their  proper  channel  again. 

It  is  a  singular  freak  of  nature,  this  instinct 
which  prompts  one  bird  to  lay  its  eggs  in  the  nests 
of  others,  and  thus  shirk  the  responsibility  of  rear- 
ing its  own  young.  The  cow  buntings  always  re- 
sort to  this  cunning  trick;  and  when  one  reflects 
upon  their  numbers  it  is  evident  that  these  little 
tragedies  are  quite  frequent.  In  Europe  the  paral- 
lel case  is  that  of  the  cuckoo,  and  occasionally  our 
own  cuckoo  imposes  upon  a  robin  or  a  thrush  in 
the  same  manner.  The  cow  bunting  seems  to  have 
no  conscience  about  the  matter,  and,  so  far  as  I 
have  observed,  invariably  selects  the  nest  of  a  bird 
smaller  than  itself.  Its  egg  is  usually  the  first  to 
hatch;  its  young  overreaches  all  the  rest  when  food 
is  brought;  it  grows  with  great  rapidity,  spreads 
and  fills  the  nest,  and  the  starved  and  crowded 
occupants  soon  perish,  when  the  parent  bird  removes 
their  dead  bodies,  giving  its  whole  energy  and  care 
to  the  foster-child. 


IN   THE   HEMLOCKS  59 

The  warblers  and  smaller  flycatchers  are  gener- 
ally the  sufferers,  though  I  sometimes  see  the  slate- 
colored  snowbird  unconsciously  duped  in  like  man- 
ner; and  the  other  day,  in  a  tall  tree  in  the  woods, 
I  discovered  the  black-throated  green-backed  warbler 
devoting  itself  to  this  dusky,  overgrown  foundling. 
An  old  farmer  to  whom  I  pointed  out  the  fact  was 
much  surprised  that  such  things  should  happen  hi 
his  woods  without  his  knowledge. 

These  birds  may  be  seen  prowling  through  all 
parts  of  the  woods  at  this  season,  watching  for  ^n 
opportunity  to  steal  their  egg  into  some  nest.  One 
day  while  sitting  on  a  log  I  saw  one  moving  by 
short  flights  through  the  trees  and  gradually  near- 
ing  the  ground.  Its  movements  were  hurried  and 
stealthy.  About  fifty  yards  from  me  it  disappeared 
behind  some  low  brush,  and  had  evidently  alighted 
upon  the  ground. 

After  waiting  a  few  moments  I  cautiously  walked 
in  the  direction.  When  about  half  way  I  acciden- 
tally made  a  slight  noise,  when  the  bird  flew  up, 
and  seeing  me  hurried  off  out  of  the  woods.  Ar- 
rived at  the  place,  I  found  a  simple  nest  of  dry 
grass  and  leaves  partially  concealed  under  a  pros- 
trate branch.  I  took  it  to  be  the  nest  of  a  sparrow. 
There  were  three  eggs  in  the  nest,  and  one  lying 
about  a  foot  below  it  as  if  it  had  been  rolled  out,  as 
of  course  it  had.  It  suggested  the  thought  that 
perhaps,  when  the  cowbird  finds  the  full  comple- 
ment of  eggs  in  a  nest,  it  throws  out  one  and  de- 
posits its  own  instead.  I  revisited  the  nest  a  few 


60  WAKE-ROBIN 

days  afterward  and  found  an  egg  again  cast  out,  but 
none  had  been  put  in  its  place.  The  nest  had  been 
abandoned  by  its  owner  and  the  eggs  were  stale. 

In  all  cases  where  I  have  found  this  egg,  I  have 
observed  both  male  and  female  of  the  cowbird  lin- 
gering near,  the  former  uttering  his  peculiar  liquid, 
glassy  note  from  the  tops  of  the  trees. 

In  July  the  young,  which  have  been  reared  in 
the  same  neighborhood,  and  which  are  now  of  a  dull 
fawn  color,  begin  to  collect  in  small  flocks,  which 
grow  to  be  quite  large  in  autumn. 

The  speckled  Canada  is  a  very  superior  warbler, 
having  a  lively,  animated  strain,  reminding  you  of 
certain  parts  of  the  canary's,  though  quite  broken 
and  incomplete;  the  bird,  the  while,  hopping  amid 
the  branches  with  increased  liveliness,  and  indulg- 
ing in  fine  sibilant  chirps,  too  happy  to  keep  silent. 

His  manners  are  quite  marked.  He  has  a  habit 
of  courtesying  when  he  discovers  you  which  is  very 
pretty.  In  form  he  is  an  elegant  bird,  somewhat 
slender,  his  back  of  a  bluish  lead-color  becoming 
nearly  black  on  his  crown:  the  under  part  of  his 
body,  from  his  throat  down,  is  of  a  light,  delicate 
yellow,  with  a  belt  of  black  dots  across  his  breast. 
He  has  a  fine  eye,  surrounded  by  a  light  yellow  ring. 

The  parent  birds  are  much  disturbed  by  my  pres- 
ence, and  keep  up  a  loud  emphatic  chirping,  which 
attracts  the  attention  of  their  sympathetic  neighbors, 
and  one  after  another  they  come  to  see  what  has 
happened.  The  chestnut-sided  and  the  Blackbur- 
nian  come  in  company.  The  black  and  yellow 


IN  THE   HEMLOCKS  61 

warbler  pauses  a  moment  and  hastens  away;  the 
Maryland  yellow-throat  peeps  shyly  from  the  lower 
bushes  and  utters  his  "Fip!  fip!"  in  sympathy; 
the  wood  pewee  comes  straight  to  the  tree  overhead, 
and  the  red-eyed  vireo  lingers  and  lingers,  eying 
me  with  a  curious,  innocent  look,  evidently  much 
puzzled.  But  all  disappear  again,  one  by  one,  ap- 
parently without  a  word  of  condolence  or  encourage- 
ment to  the  distressed  pair.  I  have  often  noticed 
among  birds  this  show  of  sympathy,  —  if  indeed  it 
be  sympathy,  and  not  merely  curiosity,  or  desire  to 
be  forewarned  of  the  approach  of  a  common  danger. 

An  hour  afterward  I  approach  the  place,  find  all 
still,  and  the  mother  bird  upon  the  nest.  As  I 
draw  near  she  seems  to  sit  closer,  her  eyes  growing 
large  with  an  inexpressibly  wild,  beautiful  look. 
She  keeps  her  place  till  I  am  within  two  paces  of 
her,  when  she  flutters  away  as  at  first.  In  the 
brief  interval  the  remaining  egg  has  hatched,  and 
the  two  little  nestlings  lift  their  heads  without  be- 
ing jostled  or  overreached  by  any  strange  bedfellow. 
A  week  afterward  and  they  were  flown  away,  —  so 
brief  is  the  infancy  of  birds.  And  the  wonder  is 
that  they  escape,  even  for  this  short  time,  the  skunks 
and  minks  and  muskrats  that  abound  here,  and  that 
have  a  decided  partiality  for  such  tidbits. 

I  pass  on  through  the  old  Barkpeeling,  now 
threading  an  obscure  cow- path  or  an  overgrown 
wood-road;  now  clambering  over  soft  and  decayed 
logs,  or  forcing  my  way  through  a  network  of  briers 
and  hazels;  now  entering  a  perfect  bower  of  wild 


62  WAKE-ROBIN 

cherry,  beech,  and  soft  maple;  now  emerging  into  a 
little  grassy  lane,  golden  with  buttercups  or  white 
with  daisies,  or  wading  waist-deep  in  the  red  rasp- 
berry-bushes. 

Whir!  whir!  whir!  and  a  brood  of  half-grown 
partridges  start  up  like  an  explosion,  a  few  paces 
from  me,  and,  scattering,  disappear  in  the  bushes 
on  all  sides.  Let  me  sit  down  here  behind  the 
screen  of  ferns  and  briers,  and  hear  this  wild  hen 
of  the  woods  call  together  her  brood.  At  what  an 
early  age  the  partridge  flies !  Nature  seems  to  con- 
centrate her  energies  on  the  wing,  making  the  safety 

lihe  bird  a  point  to  be  looked  after  first;  and 
while  the  body  is  covered  with  down,  and  no  signs 
of  feathers  are  visible,  the  wing-quills  sprout  and 
unfold,  and  in  an  incredibly  short  time  the  young 
make  fair  headway  in  flying. 

The  same  rapid  development  of  wing  may  be 
observed  in  chickens  and  turkeys,  but  not  in  water- 
fowls, nor  in  birds  that  are  safely  housed  in  the 
nest  till  full-fledged.  The  other  day,  by  a  brook, 
I  came  suddenly  upon  a  young  sandpiper,  a  most 
beautiful  creature,  enveloped  in  a  soft  gray  down, 
swift  and  nimble  and  apparently  a  week  or  two  old, 
but  with  no  signs  of  plumage  either  of  body  or 
wing.  And  it  needed  none,  for  it  escaped  me  by 
taking  to  the  water  as  readily  as  if  it  had  flown 
with  wings. 

Hark !  there  arises  over  there  in  the  brush  a  soft, 
persuasive  cooing,  a  sound  so  subtle  and  wild  and 
unobtrusive  that  it  requiies  the  most  alert  and 


IN  THE   HEMLOCKS  63 

watchful  ear  to  hear  it.  How  gentle  and  solicitous 
and  full  of  yearning  love !  It  is  the  voice  of  the 
mother  hen.  Presently  a  faint  timid  "  Yeap ! " 
which  almost  eludes  the  ear,  is  heard  in  various 
directions,  —  the  young  responding.  As  no  danger 
seems  near,  the  cooing  of  the  parent  bird  is  soon  a 
very  audible  clucking  call,  and  the  young  move 
cautiously  in  the  direction.  Let  me  step  never  so 
carefully  from  my  hiding-place,  and  all  sounds  in- 
stantly cease,  and  I  search  in  vain  for  either  parent 
or  young. 

The  partridge  is  one  of  our  most  native  and  char- 
acteristic birds.  The  woods  seem  good  to  be  in 
where  I  find  him.  He  gives  a  habitable  air  to  the 
forest,  and  one  feels  as  if  the  rightful  occupant  was 
really  at  home.  The  woods  where  I  do  not  find 
him  seem  to  want  something,  as  if  suffering  from 
some  neglect  of  Nature.  And  then  he  is  such  a 
splendid  success,  so  hardy  and  vigorous.  I  think 
he  enjoys  the  cold  and  the  snow.  His  wings  seem 
to  rustle  with  more  fervency  in  midwinter.  If  the 
snow  falls  very  fast,  and  promises  a  heavy  storm, 
he  will  complacently  sit  down  and  allow  himself  to 
be  snowed  under.  Approaching  him  at  such  times, 
he  suddenly  bursts  out  of  the  snow  at  your  feet, 
scattering  the  flakes  in  all  directions,  and  goes  hum- 
ming away  through  the  woods  like  a  bomb-shell,  — 
a  picture  of  native  spirit  and  success. 

His  drum  is  one  of  the  most  welcome  and  beau- 
tiful sounds  of  spring.  Scarcely  have  the  trees 
expanded  their  buds,  when,  in  the  still  April  morn- 


64  WAKE-ROBIN 

ings,  or  toward  nightfall,  you  hear  the  hum  of  his 
devoted  wings.  He  selects  not,  as  you  would  pre- 
dict, a  dry  and  resinous  log,  but  a  decayed  and 
crumbling  one,  seeming  to  give  the  preference  to 
old  oak-logs  that  are  partly  blended  with  the  soil. 
If  a  log  to  his  taste  cannot  be  found  he  sets  up  his 
altar  on  a  rock,  which  becomes  resonant  beneath  his 
fervent  blows.  Who  has  seen  the  partridge  drum  ? 
It  is  the  next  thing  to  catching  a  weasel  asleep, 
though  by  much  caution  and  tact  it  may  be  done. 
He  does  not  hug  the  log,  but  stands  very  erect, 
expands  his  ruff,  gives  two  introductory  blows, 
pauses  half  a  second,  and  then  resumes,  striking 
faster  and  faster  till  the  sound  becomes  a  continu- 
ous, unbroken  whir,  the  whole  lasting  less  than 
half  a  minute.  The  tips  of  his  wings  barely  brush 
the  log,  so  that  the  sound  is  produced  rather  by  the 
force  of  the  blows  upon  the  air  and  upon  his  own 
body  as  in  flying.  One  log  will  be  used  for  many 
years,  though  not  by  the  same  drummer.  It  seems 
to  be  a  sort  of  temple  and  held  in  great  respect. 
The  bird  always  approaches  on  foot,  and  leaves  it 
in  the  same  quiet  manner,  unless  rudely  disturbed. 
He  is  very  cunning,  though  his  wit  is  not  profound. 
It  is  difficult  to  approach  him  by  stealth;  you  will 
try  many  times  before  succeeding;  but  seem  to  pass 
by  him  in  a  great  hurry,  making  all  the  noise  pos- 
sible, and  with  plumage  furled  he  stands  as  immov- 
able as  a  knot,  allowing  you  a  good  view,  and  a  good 
shot  if  you  are  a  sportsman. 

Passing  along  one  of  the  old  Barkpeelers'  roada 


IN  THE   HEMLOCKS  65 

which  wander  aimlessly  about,  I  am  attracted  by  a 
singularly  brilliant  and  emphatic  warble,  proceeding 
from  the  low  bushes,  and  quickly  suggesting  the 
voice  of  the  Maryland  yellow-throat.  Presently  the 
singer  hops  up  on  a  dry  twig,  and  gives  me  a  good 
view.  Lead- colored  head  and  neck,  becoming  nearly 
black  on  the  breast;  clear  olive-green  back,  and 
yellow  belly.  From  his  habit  of  keeping  near  the 
ground,  even  hopping  upon  it  occasionally,  I  know 
him  to  be  a  ground  warbler;  from  his  dark  breast 
the  ornithologist  has  added  the  expletive  mourning, 
hence  the  mourning  ground  warbler. 

Of  this  bird  both  Wilson  and  Audubon  confessed 
their  comparative  ignorance,  neither  ever  having 
seen  its  nest  or  become  acquainted  with  its  haunts 
and  general  habits.  Its  song  is  quite  striking  and 
novel,  though  its  voice  at  once  suggests  the  class  of 
warblers  to  which  it  belongs.  It  is  very  shy  and 
wary,  flying  but  a  few  feet  at  a  time,  and  studiously 
concealing  itself  from  your  view.  I  discover  but 
one  pair  here.  The  female  has  food  in  her  beak, 
but  carefully  avoids  betraying  the  locality  of  her 
nest.  The  ground  warblers  all  have  one  notable 
feature,  —  very  beautiful  legs,  as  white  and  delicate 
as  if  they  had  always  worn  silk  stockings  and  satin 
slippers.  High  tree  warblers  have  dark  brown  or 
black  legs  and  more  brilliant  plumage,  but  less 
musical  ability. 

The  chestnut-sided  belongs  to  the  latter  class. 
He  is  quite  common  in  these  woods,  as  in  all  the 
woods  about.  He  is  one  of  the  rarest  and  hand- 


66  WAKE-ROBIN 

somest  of  the  warblers ;  his  white  breast  and  throat, 
chestnut  sides,  and  yellow  crown  show  conspicuously. 
Last  year  I  found  the  nest  of  one  in  an  uplying 
beech  wood,  in  a  low  bush  near  the  roadside,  where 
cows  passed  and  browsed  daily.  Things  went  on 
smoothly  till  the  cow  bunting  stole  her  egg  into  it, 
when  other  mishaps  followed,  and  the  nest  was  soon 
empty.  A  characteristic  attitude  of  the  male  dur- 
ing this  season  is  a  slight  drooping  of  the  wings, 
and  tail  a  little  elevated,  which  gives  him  a  very 
smart,  bantam-like  appearance.  His  song  is  fine 
and  hurried,  and  not  much  of  itself,  but  has  its 
place  in  the  general  chorus. 

A  far  sweeter  strain,  falling  on  the  ear  with  the 
true  sylvan  cadence,  is  that  of  the  black- throated 
green-backed  warbler,  whom  I  meet  at  various 
points.  He  has  no  superiors  among  the  true  Syl- 
via. His  song  is  very  plain  and  simple,  but  re- 
markably pure  and  tender,  and  might  be  indicated 

by  straight  lines,  thus, \/  ;  the  first 

two  marks  representing  two  sweet,  silvery  notes,  in 
the  same  pitch  of  voice,  and  quite  unaccented;  the 
latter  marks,  the  concluding  notes,  wherein  the  tone 
and  inflection  are  changed.  The  throat  and  breast 
of  the  male  are  a  rich  black  like  velvet,  his  face 
yellow,  and  his  back  a  yellowish  green. 

Beyond  the  Barkpeeling,  where  the  woods  are 
mingled  hemlock,  beech,  and  birch,  the  languid 
midsummer  note  of  the  black-throated  blue-back 
falls  on  my  ear.  "  Twea,  twea,  twea-e-e ! "  in  the 
upward  slide,  and  with  the  peculiar  z-ing  of  summer 


IN  THE   HEMLOCKS  67 

insects,  but  not  destitute  of  a  certain  plaintive 
cadence.  It  is  one  of  the  most  languid,  unhurried 
sounds  in  all  the  woods.  I  feel  like  reclining  upon 
the  dry  leaves  at  once.  Audubon  says  he  has 
never  heard  his  love- song ;  but  this  is  all  the  love- 
song  he  has,  and  he  is  evidently  a  very  plain  hero 
with  his  little  brown  mistress.  He  assumes  few 
attitudes,  and  is  not  a  bold  and  striking  gymnast, 
like  many  of  his  kindred.  He  has  a  preference  for 
dense  woods  of  beech  and  maple,  moves  slowly  amid 
the  lower  branches  and  smaller  growths,  keeping 
from  eight  to  ten  feet  from  the  ground,  and  repeat- 
ing now  and  then  his  listless,  indolent  strain.  His 
back  and  crown  are  dark  blue;  his  throat  and 
breast,  black;  his  belly,  pure  white;  and  he  has  a 
white  spot  on  each  wing. 

Here  and  there  I  meet  the  black  and  white  creep- 
ing warbler,  whose  fine  strain  reminds  me  of  hair- 
wire.  It  is  unquestionably  the  finest  bird-song  to 
be  heard.  Few  insect  strains  will  compare  with  it 
in  this  respect ;  while  it  has  none  of  the  harsh,  brassy 
character  of  the  latter,  being  very  delicate  and  tender. 

That  sharp,  uninterrupted,  but  still  continued 
warble,  which,  before  one  has  learned  to  discrim- 
inate closely,  he  is  apt  to  confound  with  the  red- 
eyed  vireo's,  is  that  of  the  solitary  warbling  vireo, 
—  a  bird  slightly  larger,  much  rarer,  and  with  a 
louder,  less  cheerful  and  happy  strain.  I  see  him 
hopping  along  lengthwise  of  the  limbs,  and  note 
the  orange  tinge  of  his  breast  and  sides  and  the 
white  circle  around  his  eye. 


68  WAKE-ROBIN 

But  the  declining  sun  and  the  deepening  shadows 
admonish  me  that  this  ramble  must  be  brought  to 
a  close,  even  though  only  the  leading  characters  in 
this  chorus  of  forty  songsters  have  been  described, 
and  only  a  small  portion  of  the  venerable  old  woods 
explored.  In  a  secluded  swampy  corner  of  the  old 
Barkpeeling,  where  I  find  the  great  purple  orchis  in 
bloom,  and  where  the  foot  of  man  or  beast  seems 
never  to  have  trod,  I  linger  long,  contemplating  the 
wonderful  display  of  lichens  and  mosses  that  over- 
run both  the  smaller  and  the  larger  growths.  Every 
bush  and  branch  and  sprig  is  dressed  up  in  the  most 
rich  and  fantastic  of  liveries;  and,  crowning  all, 
the  long  bearded  moss  festoons  the  branches  or 
sways  gracefully  from  the  limbs.  Every  twig  looks 
a  century  old,  though  green  leaves  tip  the  end  of  it. 
A  young  yellow  birch  has  a  venerable,  patriarchal 
look,  and  seems  ill  at  ease  under  such  premature 
honors.  A  decayed  hemlock  is  draped  as  if  by 
hands  for  some  solemn  festival. 

Mounting  toward  the  upland  again,  I  pause  rev- 
erently as  the  hush  and  stillness  of  twilight  come 
upon  the  woods.  It  is  the  sweetest,  ripest  hour  of 
the  day.  And  as  the  hermit's  evening  hymn  goes 
up  from  the  deep  solitude  below  me,  I  experience 
that  serene  exaltation  of  sentiment  of  which  music, 
literature,  and  religion  are  but  the  faint  types  and 
symbols. 

1865. 


m 

THE  ADIRONDACKS 


w 


'HEN  I  went  to  the  Adirondacks,  which  was 
in  the  summer  of  1863,  I  was  in  the  first 
flush  of  my  ornithological  studies,  and  was  curious, 
above  all  else,  to  know  what  birds  I  should  find  in 
these  solitudes,  —  what  new  ones,  and  what  ones 
already  known  to  me. 

In  visiting  vast,  primitive,  far-off  woods  one 
naturally  expects  to  find  something  rare  and  pre- 
cious, or  something  entirely  new,  but  it  commonly 
happens  that  one  is  disappointed.  Thoreau  made 
three  excursions  into  the  Maine  woods,  and,  though 
he  started  the  moose  and  caribou,  had  nothing  more 
novel  to  report  by  way  of  bird  notes  than  the  songs 
of  the  wood  thrush  and  the  pewee.  This  was  about 
my  own  experience  in  the  Adirondacks.  The  birds 
for  the  most  part  prefer  the  vicinity  of  settlements 
and  clearings,  and  it  was  at  such  places  that  I  saw 
the  greatest  number  and  variety. 

At  the  clearing  of  an  old  hunter  and  pioneer  by 
the  name  of  Hewett,  where  we  paused  a  couple  of 
days  on  first  entering  the  woods,  I  saw  many  old 
friends  and  made  some  new  acquaintances.  The 
snowbird  was  very  abundant  here,  as  it  had  been 


70  WAKE-ROBIN 

at  various  points  along  the  route  after  leaving  Lake 
George.  As  I  went  out  to  the  spring  in  the  morn- 
ing to  wash  myself  a  purple  finch  flew  up  before 
me,  having  already  performed  its  ablutions.  I  had 
first  observed  this  bird  the  winter  before  in  the 
Highlands  of  the  Hudson,  where,  during  several 
clear  but  cold  February  mornings,  a  troop  of  them 
sang  most  charmingly  in  a  tree  in  front  of  my 
house.  The  meeting  with  the  bird  here  in  its 
breeding  haunts  was  a  pleasant  surprise.  During 
the  day  I  observed  several  pine  finches,  —  a  dark 
brown  or  brindlish  bird,  allied  to  the  common  yel- 
lowbird,  which  it  much  resembles  in  its  manner 
and  habits.  They  lingered  familiarly  about  the 
house,  sometimes  alighting  in  a  small  tree  within 
a  few  feet  of  it.  In  one  of  the  stumpy  fields  I 
saw  an  old  favorite  in  the  grass  finch  or  vesper 
sparrow.  It  was  sitting  on  a  tall  charred  stub  with 
food  in  its  beak.  But  all  along  the  borders  of  the 
woods  and  in  the  bushy  parts  of  the  fields  there 
was  a  new  song  that  I  was  puzzled  in  tracing  to  the 
author.  It  was  most  noticeable  in  the  morning  and 
at  twilight,  but  was  at  all  times  singularly  secret 
and  elusive.  I  at  last  discovered  that  it  was  the 
white-throated  sparrow,  a  common  bird  all  through 
this  region.  Its  song  is  very  delicate  and  plaintive, 
—  a  thin,  wavering,  tremulous  whistle,  which  dis- 
appoints one,  however,  as  it  ends  when  it  seems 
only  to  have  begun.  If  the  bird  could  give  us  the 
finishing  strain  of  which  this  seems  only  the  pre- 
lude, it  would  stand  first  among  feathered  songsters. 


THE   ADIRONDACKS  71 

By  a  little  trout-brook  in  a  low  part  of  the  woods 
adjoining  the  clearing,  I  had  a  good  time  pursuing 
and  identifying  a  numher  of  warblers,  —  the  speckled 
Canada,  the  black-throated  blue,  the  yellow-rumped, 
and  Andubon's  warbler.  The  latter,  which  was 
leading  its  troop  of  young  through  a  thick  under- 
growth on  the  banks  of  the  creek  where  insects 
were  plenty,  was  new  to  me. 

It  being  August,  the  birds  were  all  moulting,  and 
sang  only  fitfully  and  by  brief  snatches.  I  remem- 
ber hearing  but  one  robin  during  the  whole  trip. 
This  was  by  the  Boreas  River  in  the  deep  forest. 
It  was  like  the  voice  of  an  old  friend  speaking  my 
name. 

From  Hewett's,  after  engaging  his  youngest  son, 
—  the  "  Bub  "  of  the  family,  —  a  young  man  about 
twenty  and  a  thorough  woodsman,  as  guide,  we 
took  to  the  woods  in  good  earnest,  our  destination 
being  the  Still  water  of  the  Boreas,  - —  a  long,  deep, 
dark  reach  in  one  of  the  remote  branches  of  the 
Hudson,  about  six  miles  distant.  Here  we  paused 
a  couple  of  days,  putting  up  in  a  dilapidated  lum- 
bermen's shanty,  and  cooking  our  fish  over  an  old 
stove  which  had  been  left  there.  The  most  note- 
worthy incident  of  our  stay  at  this  point  was  the 
taking  by  myself  of  half  a  dozen  splendid  trout  out 
of  the  Stillwater,  after  the  guide  had  exhausted  his 
art  and  his  patience  with  very  insignificant  results. 
The  place  had  a  very  trouty  look;  but  as  the  season 
was  late  and  the  river  warm,  I  knew  the  fish  lay  in 
deep  water  from  which  they  could  not  be  attracted. 


72  WAKE-ROBIN 

In  deep  water  accordingly,  and  near  the  head  of  the 
hole,  I  determined  to  look  for  them.  Securing  a 
chub,  I  cut  it  into  pieces  about  an  inch  long,  and 
with  these  for  bait  sank  my  hook  into  the  head  of 
the  Still  water,  and  just  to  one  side  of  the  main  cur- 
rent. In  less  than  twenty  minutes  I  had  landed 
six  noble  fellows,  three  of  them  over  one  foot  long 
each.  The  guide  and  my  incredulous  companions, 
who  were  watching  me  from  the  opposite  shore, 
seeing  my  luck,  whipped  out  their  tackle  in  great 
haste  and  began  casting  first  at  a  respectable  dis- 
tance from  me,  then  all  about  me,  but  without  a 
single  catch.  My  own  efforts  suddenly  became 
fruitless  also,  but  I  had  conquered  the  guide,  and 
thenceforth  he  treated  me  with  the  tone  and  free- 
dom of  a  comrade  and  equal. 

One  afternoon  we  visited  a  cave  some  two  miles 
down  the  stream,  which  had  recently  been  discov- 
ered. We  squeezed  and  wriggled  through  a  big 
crack  or  cleft  in  the  side  of  the  mountain,  for  about 
one  hundred  feet,  when  we  emerged  into  a  large 
dome-shaped  passage,  the  abode,  during  certain  sea- 
sons of  the  year,  of  innumerable  bats,  and  at  all 
times  of  primeval  darkness.  There  were  various 
other  crannies  and  pit-holes  opening  into  it,  some 
of  which  we  explored.  The  voice  of  running  water 
was  everywhere  heard,  betraying  the  proximity  of 
the  little  stream  by  whose  ceaseless  corroding  the 
cave  and  its  entrance  had  been  worn.  This  stream- 
let flowed  out  of  the  mouth  of  the  cave,  and  came 
from  a  lake  on  the  top  of  the  mountain;  this  ac- 


THE   ADIRONDACKS  73 

counted  for  its  warmth  to  the  hand,  which  surprised 
us  all. 

Birds  of  any  kind  were  rare  in  these  woods.  A 
pigeon  hawk  came  prowling  by  our  camp,  and  the 
faint  piping  call  of  the  nuthatches,  leading  their 
young  through  the  high  trees,  was  often  heard. 

On  the  third  day  our  guide  proposed  to  conduct 
us  to  a  lake  in  the  mountains  where  we  could  float 
for  deer. 

Our  journey  commenced  in  a  steep  and  rugged 
ascent,  which  brought  us,  after  an  hour's  heavy 
climbing,  to  an  elevated  region  of  pine  forest,  years 
before  ravished  by  lumbermen,  and  presenting  all 
manner  of  obstacles  to  our  awkward  and  incum- 
bered  pedestrianism.  The  woods  were  largely  pine, 
though  yellow  birch,  beech,  and  maple  were  com- 
mon. The  satisfaction  of  having  a  gun,  should  any 
game  show  itself,  was  the  chief  compensation  to 
those  of  us  who  were  thus  burdened.  A  partridge 
would  occasionally  whir  up  before  us,  or  a  red 
squirrel  snicker  and  hasten  to  his  den;  else  the 
woods  appeared  quite  tenantless.  The  most  noted 
object  was  a  mammoth  pine,  apparently  the  last  of 
a  great  race,  which  presided  over  a  cluster  of  yel- 
low birches,  on  the  side  of  the  mountain. 

About  noon  we  came  out  upon  a  long,  shallow 
sheet  of  water  which  the  guide  called  Bloody-Moose 
Pond,  from  the  tradition  that  a  moose  had  been 
slaughtered  there  many  years  before.  Looking  out 
over  the  silent  and  lonely  scene,  his  eye  was  the 
first  to  detect  an  object,  apparently  feeding  upon  lily- 


74  WAKE-ROBIN 

pads,  which  our  willing  fancies  readily  shaped  into 
a  deer.  As  we  were  eagerly  waiting  some  move- 
ment to  confirm  this  impression,  it  lifted  up  its 
head,  and,  lo!  a  great  blue  heron.  Seeing  us  ap- 
proach, it  spread  its  long  wings  and  flew  solemnly 
across  to  a  dead  tree  on  the  other  side  of  the  lake, 
enhancing  rather  than  relieving  the  loneliness  and 
desolation  that  brooded  over  the  scene.  As  we 
proceeded  it  flew  from  tree  to  tree  in  advance  of  us, 
apparently  loth  to  be  disturbed  in  its  ancient  and 
solitary  domain.  In  the  margin  of  the  pond  we 
found  the  pitcher- plant  growing,  and  here  and  there 
in  the  sand  the  closed  gentian  lifted  up  its  blue 
head. 

In  traversing  the  shores  of  this  wild,  desolate 
lake,  I  was  conscious  of  a  slight  thrill  of  expecta- 
tion, as  if  some  secret  of  Nature  might  here  be 
revealed,  or  some  rare  and  unheard-of  game  dis- 
turbed. There  is  ever  a  lurking  suspicion  that  the 
beginning  of  things  is  in  some  way  associated  with 
water,  and  one  may  notic*  that  in  his  private  walks 
he  is  led  by  a  curious  attraction  to  fetch  all  the 
springs  and  ponds  in  his  route,  as  if  by  them  was 
the  place  for  wonders  and  miracles  to  happen. 
Once,  while  in  advance  of  my  companions,  I  saw, 
from  a  high  rock,  a  commotion  in  the  water  near 
the  shore,  but  on  reaching  the  point  found  only  the 
marks  of  a  musquash. 

Pressing  on  through  the  forest,  after  many  adven- 
tures with  the  pine-knots,  we  reached,  about  the 
middle  of  the  afternoon,  our  destination,  Nate's 


THE   ADIRONDACKS  75 

Pond,  —  a  pretty  sheet  of  water,  lying  like  a  silver 
mirror  in  the  lap  of  the  mountain,  about  a  mile 
long  and  half  a  mile  wide,  surrounded  by  dark  for- 
ests of  balsam,  hemlock,  and  pine,  and,  like  the 
one  we  had  just  passed,  a  very  picture  of  unbroken 
solitude. 

It  is  not  in  the  woods  alone  to  give  one  this 
impression  of  utter  loneliness.  In  the  woods  are 
sounds  and  voices,  and  a  dumb  kind  of  companion- 
ship ;  one  is  little  more  than  a  walking  tree  himself ; 
but  come  upon  one  of  these  mountain  lakes,  and  the 
wildness  stands  revealed  and  meets  you  face  to  face. 
Water  is  thus  facile  and  adaptive,  that  it  makes  the 
wild  more  wild,  while  it  enhances  culture  and  art. 

The  end  of  the  pond  which  we  approached  was 
quite  shoal,  the  stones  rising  above  the  surface  as 
in  a  summer  brook,  and  everywhere  showing  marks 
of  the  noble  game  we  were  in  quest  of,  — foot- 
prints, dung,  and  cropped  and  uprooted  lily-pads. 
After  resting  for  a  half  hour,  and  replenishing  our 
game-pouches  at  the  expense  of  the  most  respectable 
frogs  of  the  locality,  we  filed  on  through  the  soft, 
resinous  pine-woods,  intending  to  camp  near  the 
other  end  of  the  lake,  where,  the  guide  assured  us, 
we  should  find  a  hunter's  cabin  ready  built.  A 
half  hour's  march  brought  us  to  the  locality,  and  a 
most  delightful  one  it  was,  —  so  hospitable  and  in- 
viting that  all  the  kindly  and  beneficent  influences 
of  the  woods  must  have  abided  there.  In  a  slight 
depression  in  the  woods,  about  one  hundred  yards 
from  the  lake,  though  hidden  from  it  for  a  hunter's 


76  WAKE-ROBIN 

reasons,  surrounded  by  a  heavy  growth  of  birch, 
hemlock,  and  pine,  with  a  lining  of  balsam  and  fir, 
the  rude  cabin  welcomed  us.  It  was  of  the  ap- 
proved style,  three  sides  inclosed,  with  a  roof  of 
bark  and  a  bed  of  boughs,  and  a  rock  in  front  that 
afforded  a  permanent  backlog  to  all  fires.  A  faint 
voice  of  running  water  was  heard  near  by,  and,  fol- 
lowing the  sound,  a  delicious  spring  rivulet  was  dis- 
closed, hidden  by  the  moss  and  debris  as  by  a  new 
fall  of  snow,  but  here  and  there  rising  in  little  well- 
like  openings,  as  if  for  our  special  convenience.  On 
smooth  places  on  the  logs  I  noticed  female  names 
inscribed  in  a  female  hand;  and  the  guide  told  us 
of  an  English  lady,  an  artist,  who  had  traversed 
this  region  with  a  single  guide,  making  sketches. 

Our  packs  unslung  and  the  kettle  over,  our  first 
move  was  to  ascertain  in  what  state  of  preservation 
a  certain  dug-out  might  be,  which,  the  guide  averred, 
he  had  left  moored  in  the  vicinity  the  summer  be- 
fore, —  for  upon  this  hypothetical  dug-out  our  hopes 
of  venison  rested.  After  a  little  searching  it  was 
found  under  the  top  of  a  fallen  hemlock,  but  in  a 
sorry  condition.  A  large  piece  had  been  split  out 
of  one  end,  and  a  fearful  chink  was  visible  nearly 
to  the  water-line.  Freed  from  the  treetop,  how- 
ever, and  calked  with  a  little  moss,  it  floated  with 
two  aboard,  which  was  quite  enough  for  our  pur- 
pose. A  jack  and  an  oar  were  necessary  to  com- 
plete the  arrangement,  and  before  the  sun  had  set 
our  professor  of  wood-craft  had  both  in  readiness. 
From  a  young  yellow  birch  an  oar  took  shape  with 


THE  ADIRONDACKS  77 

marvelous  rapidity,  —  trimmed  and  smoothed  with 
a  neatness  almost  fastidious,  —  no  makeshift,  but 
an  instrument  fitted  for  the  delicate  work  it  was  to 
perform. 

A  jack  was  made  with  equal  skill  and  speed.  A 
stout  staff  about  three  feet  long  was  placed  upright 
in  the  bow  of  the  boat,  and  held  to  its  place  by  a 
horizontal  bar,  through  a  hole  in  which  it  turned 
easily :  a  half  wheel  eight  or  ten  inches  in  diameter, 
cut  from  a  large  chip,  was  placed  at  the  top,  around 
which  was  bent  a  new  section  of  birch  bark,  thus 
forming  a  rude  semicircular  reflector.  Three  can- 
dles placed  within  the  circle  completed  the  jack. 
With  moss  and  boughs  seats  were  arranged,  —  one 
in  the  bow  for  the  marksman,  and  one  in  the  stern 
for  the  oarsman.  A  meal  of  frogs  and  squirrels 
was  a  good  preparation,  and,  when  darkness  came, 
all  were  keenly  alive  to  the  opportunity  it  brought. 
Though  by  no  means  an  expert  in  the  use  of  the 
gun,  —  adding  the  superlative  degree  of  enthusiasm 
to  only  the  positive  degree  of  skill,  —  yet  it  seemed 
tacitly  agreed  that  I  should  act  as  marksman  and 
kill  the  deer,  if  such  was  to  be  our  luck. 

After  it  was  thoroughly  dark  we  went  down  to 
make  a  short  trial  trip.  Everything  working  to  sat- 
isfaction, about  ten  o'clock  we  pushed  out  in  ear- 
nest. For  the  twentieth  time  I  felt  in  the  pocket 
that  contained  the  matches,  ran  over  the  part  I  was 
to  perform,  and  pressed  my  gun  firmly,  to  be  sure 
there  was  no  mistake.  My  position  was  that  of 
kneeling  directly  under  the  jack,  which  I  was  to 


78  WAKE-ROBIN 

light  at  the  word.  The  night  was  clear,  moonless, 
and  still.  Nearing  the  middle  of  the  lake,  a  breeze 
from  the  west  was  barely  perceptible,  and  noiselessly 
we  glided  before  it.  The  guide  handled  his  oar 
with  great  dexterity;  without  lifting  it  from  the 
water  or  breaking  the  surface,  he  imparted  the 
steady,  uniform  motion  desired.  How  silent  it 
was!  The  ear  seemed  the  only  sense,  and  to  hold 
dominion  over  lake  and  forest.  Occasionally  a  lily- 
pad  would  brush  along  the  bottom,  and  stooping 
low  I  could  hear  a  faint  murmuring  of  the  water 
under  the  bow:  else  all  was  still.  Then,  almost  as 
by  magic,  we  were  encompassed  by  a  huge  black 
ring.  The  surface  of  the  lake,  when  we  had  reached 
the  centre,  was  slightly  luminous  from  the  starlight, 
and  the  dark,  even  forest-line  that  surrounded  us, 
doubled  by  reflection  in  the  water,  presented  a 
broad,  unbroken  belt  of  utter  blackness.  The  effect 
was  quite  startling,  like  some  huge  conjurer's  trick. 
It  seemed  as  if  we  had  crossed  the  boundary-line 
between  the  real  and  the  imaginary,  and  this  was 
indeed  the  land  of  shadows  and  of  spectres.  What 
magic  oar  was  that  the  guide  wielded  that  it  could 
transport  me  to  such  a  realm !  Indeed,  had  I  not 
committed  some  fatal  mistake  and  left  that  trusty 
servant  behind,  and  had  not  some  wizard  of  the 
night  stepped  into  his  place?  A  slight  splashing 
in-shore  broke  the  spell  and  caused  me  to  turn  ner- 
vously to  the  oarsman:  "Musquash,"  said  he,  and 
kept  straight  on. 

Nearing  the  extreme  end  of  the  pond,  the  boat 


THE  ADIEONDACKS  79 

gently  headed  around,  and  silently  we  glided  back 
into  the  clasp  of  that  strange  orbit.  Slight  sounds 
were  heard  as  before,  but  nothing  that  indicated  the 
presence  of  the  game  we  were  waiting  for;  and  we 
reached  the  point  of  departure  as  innocent  of  veni- 
son as  we  had  set  out. 

After  an  hour's  delay,  and  near  midnight,  we 
pushed  out  again.  My  vigilance  and  susceptibility 
were  rather  sharpened  than  dulled  by  the  waiting ; 
and  the  features  of  the  night  had  also  deepened  and 
intensified.  Night  was  at  its  meridian.  The  sky 
had  that  soft  luminousness  which  may  often  be  ob- 
served near  midnight  at  this  season,  and  the  "  large 
few  stars"  beamed  mildly  down.  We  floated  out 
into  that  spectral  shadow-land  and  moved  slowly  on 
as  before.  The  silence  was  most  impressive.  Now 
and  then  the  faint  yeap  of  some  traveling  bird 
would  come  from  the  air  overhead,  or  the  wings  of 
a  bat  whisp  quickly  by,  or  an  owl  hoot  off  in  the 
mountains,  giving  to  the  silence  and  loneliness  a 
tongue.  At  short  intervals  some  noise  in-shore 
would  startle  me,  and  cause  me  to  turn  inquiringly 
to  the  silent  figure  in  the  stern. 

The  end  of  the  lake  was  reached,  and  we  turned 
back.  The  novelty  and  the  excitement  began  to 
flag;  tired  nature  began  to  assert  her  claims;  the 
movement  was  soothing,  and  the  gunner  slumbered 
fitfully  at  his  post.  Presently  something  aroused 
me.  "There  's  a  deer,"  whispered  the  guide.  The 
gun  heard,  and  fairly  jumped  in  my  hand.  Listen- 
ing, there  came  the  cracking  of  a  limb,  followed  by 


80  WAKE  -ROBIN 

a  sound  as  of  something  walking  in  shallow  water. 
It  proceeded  from  the  other  end  of  the  lake,  over 
against  our  camp.  On  we  sped,  noiselessly  as  ever, 
but  with  increased  velocity.  Presently,  with  a 
thrill  of  new  intensity,  I  saw  the  boat  was  gradually 
heading  in  that  direction.  Now,  to  a  sportsman 
who  gets  excited  over  a  gray  squirrel,  and  forgets 
that  he  has  a  gun  on  the  sudden  appearance  of  a 
fox,  this  was  a  severe  trial*  I  felt  suddenly  cramped 
for  room,  and  trimming  the  boat  was  out  of  the 
question.  It  seemed  that  I  must  make  some  noise 
in  spite  of  myself.  "Light  the  jack,"  said  a  soft 
whisper  behind  me.  I  fumbled  nervously  for  a 
match,  and  dropped  the  first  one.  Another  was 
drawn  briskly  across  my  knee  and  broke.  A  third 
lighted,  but  went  out  prematurely,  in  my  haste  to 
get  it  up  to  the  jack.  What  would  I  not  have 
given  to  see  those  wicks  blaze !  We  were  fast  near- 
ing  the  shore,  —  already  the  lily-pads  began  to 
brush  along  the  bottom.  Another  attempt,  and  the 
light  took.  The  gentle  motion  fanned  the  blaze, 
and  in  a  moment  a  broad  glare  of  light  fell  upon 
the  water  in  front  of  us,  while  the  boat  remained  in 
utter  darkness. 

By  this  time  I  had  got  beyond  the  nervous  point, 
and  had  come  round  to  perfect  coolness  and  compos- 
ure again,  but  preternaturally  vigilant  and  keen.  I 
was  ready  for  any  disclosures;  not  a  sound  was 
heard.  In  a  few  moments  the  trees  alongshore 
were  faintly  visible.  Every  object  put  on  the 
shape  of  a  gigantic  deer.  A  large  rock  looked  just 


THE  ADIRONDACKS  81 

ready  to  bound  away.     The  dry  limbs  of  a  prostrate 
tree  were  surely  his  antlers. 

But  what  are  those  two  luminous  spots?  Need 
the  reader  to  be  told  what  they  were  ?  In  a  moment 
the  head  of  a  real  deer  became  outlined;  then  his 
neck  and  f  oreshoulders ;  then  his  whole  body. 
There  he  stood,  up  to  his  knees  in  the  water,  gazing 
fixedly  at  us,  apparently  arrested  in  the  movement 
of  putting  his  head  down  for  a  lily-pad,  and  evi- 
dently thinking  it  was  some  new-fangled  moon 
sporting  about  there.  "Let  him  have  it,"  said  my 
prompter,  —  and  the  crash  came.  There  was  a 
scuffle  in  the  water,  and  a  plunge  in  the  woods. 
"He  's  gone,"  said  I.  "Wait  a  moment,"  said  the 
guide,  "and  I  will  show  you."  Eapidly  running 
the  canoe  ashore,  we  sprang  out,  and,  holding  the 
jack  aloft,  explored  the  vicinity  by  its  light. 
There,  over  the  logs  and  brush,  I  caught  the  glim- 
mer of  those  luminous  spots  again.  But,  poor 
thing!  there  was  little  need  of  the  second  shot, 
which  was  the  unkindest  cut  of  all,  for  the  deer 
had  already  fallen  to  the  ground,  and  was  fast 
expiring.  The  success  was  but  a  very  indifferent 
one,  after  all,  as  the  victim  turned  out  to  be  only 
an  old  doe,  upon  whom  maternal  cares  had  evidently 
worn  heavily  during  the  summer. 

This  mode  of  taking  deer  is  very  novel  and 
strange.  The  animal  is  evidently  fascinated  or  be- 
wildered. It  does  not  appear  to  be  frightened,  but 
as  if  overwhelmed  with  amazement,  or  under  the 


82  WAKE-ROBIN 

influence  of  some  spell.  It  is  not  sufficiently  mas- 
ter of  the  situation  to  be  sensible  to  fear,  or  to 
think  of  escape  by  flight;  and  the  experiment,  to 
be  successful,  must  be  done  quickly,  before  the  first 
feeling  of  bewilderment  passes. 

Witnessing  the  spectacle  from  the  shore,  I  can 
conceive  of  nothing  more  sudden  or  astounding. 
You  see  no  movement  and  hear  no  noise,  but  the 
light  grows  upon  you,  and  stares  and  stares  like  a 
huge  eye  from  the  infernal  regions. 

According  to  the  guide,  when  a  deer  has  been 
played  upon  in  this  manner  and  escaped,  he  is  not 
to  be  fooled  a  second  time.  Mounting  the  shore, 
he  gives  a  long  signal  snort,  which  alarms  every 
animal  within  hearing,  and  dashes  away. 

The  sequel  to  the  deer-shooting  was  a  little  sharp 
practice  with  a  revolver  upon  a  rabbit,  or  properly 
a  hare,  which  was  so  taken  with  the  spectacle  of 
the  camp-fire,  and  the  sleeping  figures  lying  about, 
that  it  ventured  quite  up  in  our  midst;  but  while 
testing  the  quality  of  some  condensed  milk  that  sat 
uncovered  at  the  foot  of  a  large  tree,  poor  Lepus 
had  his  spine  injured  by  a  bullet. 

Those  who  lodge  with  Nature  find  early  rising 
quite  in  order.  It  is  our  voluptuous  beds,  and  iso- 
lation from  the  earth  and  the  air,  that  prevents  us 
from  emulating  the  birds  and  beasts  in  this  respect. 
With  the  citizen  in  his  chamber,  it  is  not  morning, 
but  breakfast- time.  The  camper- out,  however,  feels 
morning  in  the  air,  he  smells  it,  sees  it,  hears  it, 


THE   ADIRONDACKS  83 

and  springs  up  with  the  general  awakening.  None 
were  tardy  at  the  row  of  white  chips  arranged  on 
the  trunk  of  a  prostrate  tree,  when  breakfast  was 
halloed;  for  we  were  all  anxious  to  try  the  venison. 
Few  of  us,  however,  took  a  second  piece.  It  was 
black  and  strong. 

The  day  was  warm  and  calm,  and  we  loafed  at 
leisure.  The  woods  were  Nature's  own.  It  was  a 
luxury  to  ramble  through  them,  —  rank  and  shaggy 
and  venerable,  but  with  an  aspect  singularly  ripe 
and  mellow.  No  fire  had  consumed  and  no  lumber- 
man plundered.  Every  trunk  and  limb  and  leaf 
lay  where  it  had  fallen.  At  every  step  the  foot 
sank  into  the  moss,  which,  like  a  soft  green  snow, 
covered  everything,  making  every  stone  a  cushion 
and  every  rock  a  bed,  — a  grand  old  Norse  parlor; 
adorned  beyond  art  and  upholstered  beyond  skill. 

Indulging  in  a  brief  nap  on  a  rug  of  club-moss 
carelessly  dropped  at  the  foot  of  a  pine-tree,  I 
woke  up  to  find  myself  the  subject  of  a  discussion 
of  a  troop  of  chickadees.  Presently  three  or  four 
shy  wood  warblers  came  to  look  upon  this  strange 
creature  that  had  wandered  into  their  haunts ;  else 
I  passed  quite  unnoticed. 

By  the  lake,  I  met  that  orchard  beauty,  the  cedar 
waxwing,  spending  his  vacation  in  the  assumed 
character  of  a  flycatcher,  whose  part  he  performed 
with  great  accuracy  and  deliberation.  Only  a  month 
before  I  had  seen  him  regaling  himself  upon  cher- 
ries in  the  garden  and  orchard;  but  as  the  dog-days 
approached  he  set  out  for  the  streams  and  lakes,  to 


84  WAKE-ROBIN 

divert  himself  with  the  more  exciting  pursuits  of 
the  chase.  From  the  tops  of  the  dead  trees  along 
the  border  of  the  lake,  he  would  sally  out  in  all 
directions,  sweeping  through  long  curves,  alternately 
mounting  and  descending,  now  reaching  up  for  a 
fly  high  in  air,  now  sinking  low  for  one  near  the 
surface,  and  returning  to  his  perch  in  a  few  moments 
for  a  fresh  start. 

The  pine  finch  was  also  here,  though,  as  usual, 
never  appearing  at  home,  but  with  a  waiting,  ex- 
pectant air.  Here  also  I  met  my  beautiful  singer, 
the  hermit  thrush,  but  with  no  song  in  his  throat 
now.  A  week  or  two  later  and  he  was  on  his  jour- 
ney southward.  This  was  the  only  species  of  thrush 
I  saw  in  the  Adirondacks.  Near  Lake  Sandford, 
where  were  large  tracts  of  raspberry  and  wild  cherry, 
I  saw  numbers  of  them.  A  boy  whom  we  met, 
driving  home  some  stray  cows,  said  it  was  the 
"partridge- bird,"  no  doubt  from  the  resemblance  of 
its  note,  when  disturbed,  to  the  cluck  of  the  par- 
tridge. 

Nate's  Pond  contained  perch  and  sunfish  but  no 
trout.  Its  water  was  not  pure  enough  for  trout. 
Was  there  ever  any  other  fish  so  fastidious  as  this, 
requiring  such  sweet  harmony  and  perfection  of  the 
elements  for  its  production  and  sustenance?  On 
higher  ground  about  a  mile  distant  was  a  trout 
pond,  the  shores  of  which  were  steep  and  rocky. 

Our  next  move  was  a  tramp  of  about  twelve  miles 
through  the  wilderness,  most  of  the  way  in  a  drench- 
ing rain,  to  a  place  called  the  Lower  Iron  Works, 


THE   ADIRONDACKS  85 

situated  on  the  road  leading  in  to  Long  Lake,  which 
is  about  a  day's  drive  farther  on.  We  found  a 
comfortable  hotel  here,  and  were  glad  enough  to 
avail  ourselves  of  the  shelter  and  warmth  which  it 
offered.  There  was  a  little  settlement  and  some 
quite  good  farms.  The  place  commands  a  fine  view 
to  the  north  of  Indian  Pass,  Mount  Marcy,  and  the 
adjacent  mountains.  On  the  afternoon  of  our  arrival, 
and  also  the  next  morning,  the  view  was  completely 
shut  off  by  the  fog.  But  about  the  middle  of  the 
forenoon  the  wind  changed,  the  fog  lifted  and  re- 
vealed to  us  the  grandest  mountain  scenery  we  had 
beheld  on  our  journey.  There  they  sat  about  fif- 
teen miles  distant,  a  group  of  them,  —  Mount  Marcy, 
Mount  Mclntyre,  and  Mount  Golden,  the  real  Adi- 
rondack monarchs.  It  was  an  impressive  sight,  ren- 
dered doubly  so  by  the  sudden  manner  in  which  it 
was  revealed  to  us  by  that  scene-shifter  the  Wind. 

I  saw  blackbirds  at  this  place,  and  sparrows,  and 
the  solitary  sandpiper,  and  the  Canada  woodpecker, 
and  a  large  number  of  hummingbirds.  Indeed,  I 
saw  more  of  the  latter  here  than  I  ever  before  saw 
in  any  one  locality.  Their  squeaking  and  whirring 
were  almost  incessant. 

The  Adirondack  Iron  Works  belong  to  the  past. 
Over  thirty  years  ago  a  company  in  Jersey  City 
purchased  some  sixty  thousand  acres  of  land  lying 
along  the  Adirondack  Biver,  and  abounding  in  mag- 
netic iron  ore.  The  land  was  cleared,  roads,  dams, 
and  forges  constructed,  and  the  work  of  manufactur- 
ing iron  begun. 


86  WAKE-ROBIN 

At  this  point  a  dam  was  built  across  the  Hudson, 
the  waters  of  which  flowed  back  into  Lake  Sand- 
ford,  about  five  miles  above.  The  lake  itself  being 
some  six  miles  long,  tolerable  navigation  was  thus 
established  for  a  distance  of  eleven  miles,  to  the 
Upper  Works,  which  seem  to  have  been  the  only 
works  in  operation.  At  the  Lower  Works,  besides 
the  remains  of  the  dam,  the  only  vestige  I  saw  was 
a  long  low  mound,  overgrown  with  grass  and  weeds, 
that  suggested  a  rude  earthwork.  We  were  told 
that  it  was  once  a  pile  of  wood  containing  hundreds 
of  cords,  cut  in  regular  lengths  and  corded  up  here 
for  use  in  the  furnaces. 

At  the  Upper  Works,  some  twelve  miles  distant, 
quite  a  village  had  been  built,  which  was  now  en- 
tirely abandoned,  with  the  exception  of  a  single 
family. 

A  march  to  this  place  was  our  next  undertaking. 
The  road  for  two  or  three  miles  kept  up  from  the 
river  and  led  us  by  three  or  four  rough,  stumpy 
farms.  It  then  approached  the  lake  and  kept  along 
its  shores.  It  was  here  a  dilapidated  corduroy 
structure  that  compelled  the  traveler  to  keep  an  eye 
on  his  feet.  Blue  jays,  two  or  three  small  hawks, 
a  solitary  wild  pigeon,  and  ruffed  grouse  were  seen 
along  the  route.  Now  and  then  the  lake  gleamed 
through  the  trees,  or  we  crossed  on  a  shaky  bridge 
some  of  its  arms  or  inlets.  After  a  while  we  began 
to  pass  dilapidated  houses  by  the  roadside.  One 
little  frame  house  I  remembered  particularly;  the 
door  was  off  the  hinges  and  leaned  against  the 


THE   ADIRONDACK^  87 

jambs,  the  windows  had  but  a  few  panes  left,  which 
glared  vacantly.  The  yard  and  little  garden  spot 
were  overrun  with  a  heavy  growth  of  timothy,  and 
the  fences  had  all  long  since  gone  to  decay.  At 
the  head  of  the  lake  a  large  stone  building  projected 
from  the  steep  bank  and  extended  over  the  road. 
A  little  beyond,  the  valley  opened  to  the  east,  and 
looking  ahead  about  one  mile  we  saw  smoke  going 
up  from  a  single  chimney.  Pressing  on,  just  as  the 
sun  was  setting  we  entered  the  deserted  village. 
The  barking  of  the  dog  brought  the  whole  family 
into  the  street,  and  they  stood  till  we  came  up. 
Strangers  in  that  country  were  a  novelty,  and  we 
were  greeted  like  familiar  acquaintances. 

Hunter,  the  head,  proved  to  be  a  first-rate  type 
of  an  Americanized  Irishman.  His  wife  was  a 
Scotch  woman.  They  had  a  family  of  five  or  six 
children,  two  of  them  grown-up  daughters,  —  mod- 
est, comely  young  women  as  you  would  find  any- 
where. The  elder  of  the  two  had  spent  a  whiter  in 
New  York  with  her  aunt,  which  perhaps  made  her 
a  little  more  self-conscious  when  in  the  presence  of 
the  strange  young  men.  Hunter  was  hired  by  the 
company  at  a  dollar  a  day  to  live  here  and  see  that 
things  were  not  wantonly  destroyed,  but  allowed  to 
go  to  decay  properly  and  decently.  He  had  a  sub- 
stantial roomy  frame  house  and  any  amount  of  grass 
and  woodland.  He  had  good  barns  and  kept  con- 
siderable stock,  and  raised  various  farm  products, 
but  only  for  his  own  use,  as  the  difficulties  of  trans- 
portation to  market  some  seventy  miles  distant  made 


88  WAKE-ROBIN 

it  no  object.  He  usually  went  to  Ticonderoga  on 
Lake  Champlain  once  a  year  for  his  groceries,  etc. 
His  post-office  was  twelve  miles  below  at  the  Lower 
Works,  where  the  mail  passed  twice  a  week.  There 
was  not  a  doctor,  or  lawyer,  or  preacher  within 
twenty-five  miles.  In  winter,  months  elapse  with- 
out their  seeing  anybody  from  the  outside  world. 
In  summer,  parties  occasionally  pass  through  here 
on  their  way  to  Indian  Pass  and  Mount  Marcy. 
Hundreds  of  tons  of  good  timothy  hay  annually  rot 
down  upon  the  cleared  land. 

After  nightfall  we  went  out  and  walked  up  and 
down  the  grass-grown  streets.  It  was  a  curious 
and  melancholy  spectacle.  The  remoteness  and  sur- 
rounding wildness  rendered  the  scene  doubly  im- 
pressive. And  the  next  day  and  the  next  the  place 
was  an  object  of  wonder.  There  were  about  thirty 
buildings  in  all,  most  of  them  small  frame  houses 
with  a  door  and  two  windows  opening  into  a  small 
yard  in  front  and  a  garden  in  the  rear,  such  as  are 
usually  occupied  by  the  laborers  in  a  country  manu- 
facturing district.  There  was  one  large  two-story 
boarding-house,  a  schoolhouse  with  a  cupola  and  a 
bell  in  it,  and  numerous  sheds  and  forges,  and  a 
saw-mill.  In  front  of  the  saw-mill,  and  ready  to 
be  rolled  to  their  place  on  the  carriage,  lay  a  large 
pile  of  pine  logs,  so  decayed  that  one  could  run  his 
walking-stick  through  them.  Near  by,  a  building 
filled  with  charcoal  was  bursting  open  and  the  coal 
going  to  waste  on  the  ground.  The  smelting  works 
were  also  much  crumbled  by  time.  The  school- 


THE   ADIRONDACKS  89 

house  was  still  used.  Every  day  one  of  the  daugh- 
ters assembles  her  smaller  brothers  and  sisters  there 
and  school  keeps.  The  district  library  contained 
nearly  one  hundred  readable  books,  which  were 
well  thumbed. 

The  absence  of  society,  etc.,  had  made  the  family 
all  good  readers.  We  brought  them  an  illustrated 
newspaper  which  was  awaiting  them  in  the  post- 
office  at  the  Lower  Works.  It  was  read  and  reread 
with  great  eagerness  by  every  member  of  the  house- 
hold. 

The  iron  ore  cropped  out  on  every  hand.  There 
was  apparently  mountains  of  it;  one  could  see  it  in 
the  stones  along  the  road.  But  the  difficulties  met 
with  in  separating  the  iron  from  its  alloys,  together 
with  the  expense  of  transportation  and  the  failure 
of  certain  railroad  schemes,  caused  the  works  to  be 
abandoned.  No  doubt  the  time  is  not  distant  when 
these  obstacles  will  be  overcome  and  this  region 
reopened. 

At  present  it  is  an  admirable  place  to  go  to. 
There  is  fishing  and  hunting  and  boating  and  moun- 
tain-climbing within  easy  reach,  and  a  good  roof 
over  your  head  at  night,  which  is  no  small  matter. 
One  is  often  disqualified  for  enjoying  the  woods 
after  he  gets  there  by  the  loss  of  sleep  and  of  proper 
food  taken  at  seasonable  times.  This  point  attended 
to,  one  is  in  the  humor  for  any  enterprise. 

About  half  a  mile  northeast  of  the  village  is  Lake 
Henderson,  a  very  irregular  and  picturesque  sheet 
of  water,  surrounded  by  dark  evergreen  forests,  and 


90  WAKE-ROBIN 

abutted  by  two  or  three  bold  promontories  with 
mottled  white  and  gray  rocks.  Its  greatest  extent 
in  any  one  direction  is  perhaps  less  than  a  mile.  Its 
waters  are  perfectly  clear  and  abound  in  lake  trout. 
A  considerable  stream  flows  into  it  which  comes 
down  from  Indian  Pass. 

A  mile  south  of  the  village  is  Lake  Sandford. 
This  is  a  more  open  and  exposed  sheet  of  water  and 
much  larger.  From  some  parts  of  it  Mount  Marcy 
and  the  gorge  of  the  Indian  Pass  are  seen  to  excel- 
lent advantage.  The  Indian  Pass  shows  as  a  huge 
cleft  in  the  mountain,  the  gray  walls  rising  on  one 
side  perpendicularly  for  many  hundred  feet.  This 
lake  abounds  in  white  and  yellow  perch  and  in 
pickerel;  of  the  latter  single  specimens  are  often 
caught  which  weigh  fifteen  pounds.  There  were  a 
few  wild  ducks  on  both  lakes.  A  brood  of  the 
goosander  or  red  merganser,  the  young  not  yet  able 
to  fly,  were  the  occasion  of  some  spirited  rowing. 
But  with  two  pairs  of  oars  in  a  trim  light  skiff,  it 
was  impossible  to  come  up  with  them.  Yet  we 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  give  them  a  chase 
every  day  when  we  first  came  on  the  lake.  It 
needed  a  good  long  pull  to  sober  us  down  so  we 
could  fish. 

The  land  on  the  east  side  of  the  lake  had  been 
burnt  over,  and  was  now  mostly  grown  up  with 
wild  cherry  and  red  raspberry  bushes.  Buffed 
grouse  were  found  here  in  great  numbers.  The 
Canada  grouse  was  also  common.  I  shot  eight  of 
the  latter  in  less  than  an  hour  on  one  occasion;  the 


THE   ADIRONDACKS  91 

eighth  one,  which  was  an  old  male,  was  killed  with 
smooth  pebble  stones,  my  shot  having  run  short. 
The  wounded  bird  ran*  under  a  pile  of  brush,  like  a 
frightened  hen.  Thrusting  a  forked  stick  down 
through  the  interstices,  I  soon  stopped  his  breathing. 
Wild  pigeons  were  quite  numerous  also.  These 
latter  recall  a  singular  freak  of  the  sharp-shinned 
hawk.  A  flock  of  pigeons  alighted  on  the  top  of  a 
dead  hemlock  standing  in  the  edge  of  a  swamp.  I 
got  over  the  fence  and  moved  toward  them  across 
an  open  space.  I  had  not  taken  many  steps  when, 
on  looking  up,  I  saw  the  whole  flock  again  in  motion 
flying  very  rapidly  around  the  butt  of  a  hill.  Just 
then  this  hawk  alighted  on  the  same  tree.  I 
stepped  back  into  the  road  and  paused  a  moment, 
in  doubt  which  course  to  go.  At  that  instant  the 
little  hawk  launched  into  .the  air  and  came  as 
straight  as  an  arrow  toward  me.  I  looked  in  amaze- 
ment, but  in  less  than  half  a  minute  he  was  within 
fifty  feet  of  my  face,  coming  full  tilt  as  if  he  had 
sighted  my  nose.  Almost  in  self-defense  I  let  fly 
one  barrel  of  my  gun,  and  the  mangled  form  of  the 
audacious  marauder  fell  literally  between  my  feet. 

Of  wild  animals,  such  as  bears,  panthers,  wolves, 
wildcats,  etc.,  we  neither  saw  nor  heard  any  in 
the  Adirondacks.  "A  howling  wilderness,"  Tho- 
reau  says,  "seldom  ever  howls.  The  howling  is 
chiefly  done  by  the  imagination  of  the  traveler." 
Hunter  said  he  often  saw  bear-tracks  in  the  snow, 
but  had  never  yet  met  Bruin.  Deer  are  more  or 
less  abundant  everywhere,  and  one  old  sportsman 


92  WAKE-ROBIN 

declares  there  is  yet  a  single  moose  in  these  moun- 
tains. On  our  return,  a  pioneer  settler,  at  whose 
house  we  stayed  overnight,' told  us  a  long  adven- 
ture he  had  had  with  a  panther.  He  related  how 
it  screamed,  how  it  followed  him  in  the  brush,  how 
he  took  to  his  boat,  how  its  eyes  gleamed  from  the 
shore,  and  how  he  fired  his  rifle  at  them  with  fatal 
effect.  His  wife  in  the  mean  time  took  something 
from  a  drawer,  and,  as  her  husband  finished  his  re- 
cital, she  produced  a  toe-nail  of  the  identical  animal 
with  marked  dramatic  effect. 

But  better  than  fish  or  game  or  grand  scenery,  or 
any  adventure  by  night  or  day,  is  the  wordless 
intercourse  with  rude  Nature  one  has  on  these  expe- 
ditions. It  is  something  to  press  the  pulse  of  our 
old  mother  by  mountain  lakes  and  streams,  and 
know  what  health  and  vigor  are  in  her  veins,  and 
how  regardless  of  observation  she  deports  herself. 

1866. 


TV 

BIRDS'-NESTS 

"T'TOW  alert  and  vigilant  the  birds  are,  even 
-* — *-  when  absorbed  in  building  their  nests !  In  an 
open  space  in  the  woods  I  see  a  pair  of  cedar-birds 
collecting  moss  from  the  top  of  a  dead  tree.  Fol- 
lowing the  direction  in  which  they  fly,  I  soon  dis- 
cover the  nest  placed  in  the  fork  of  a  small  soft 
maple,  which  stands  amid  a  thick  growth  of  wild 
cherry-trees  and  young  beeches.  Carefully  conceal- 
ing myself  beneath  it,  without  any  fear  that  the 
workmen  will  hit  me  with  a  chip  or  let  fall  a  tool, 
I  await  the  return  of  the  busy  pair.  Presently  I 
hear  the  well-known  note,  and  the  female  sweeps 
down  and  settles  unsuspectingly  into  the  half-fin- 
ished structure.  Hardly  have  her  wings  rested  be- 
fore her  eye  has  penetrated  my  screen,  and  with  a 
hurried  movement  of  alarm  she  darts  away.  In  a 
moment  the  male,  with  a  tuft  of  wool  in  his  beak 
(for  there  is  a  sheep  pasture  near),  joins  her,  and 
the  two  reconnoitre  the  premises  from  the  surround- 
ing bushes.  With  their  beaks  still  loaded,  they 
move  around  with  a  frightened  look,  and  refuse  to 
approach  the  nest  till  I  have  moved  off  and  lain 
down  behind  a  log.  Then  one  of  them  ventures  to 


94  WAKE-ROBIN 

alight  upon  the  nest,  but,  still  suspecting  all  is  not 
right,  quickly  darts  away  again.  Then  they  both 
together  come,  and  after  much  peeping  and  spying 
about,  and  apparently  much  anxious  consultation, 
cautiously  proceed  to  work.  In  less  than  half  an 
hour  it  would  seem  that  wool  enough  has  been 
brought  to  supply  the  whole  family,  real  and  pro- 
spective, with  socks,  if  needles  and  fingers  could  be 
found  fine  enough  to  knit  it  up.  In  less  than  a 
week  the  female  has  begun  to  deposit  her  eggs,  — 
four  of  them  in  as  many  days,  —  white  tinged  with 
purple,  with  black  spots  on  the  larger  end.  After 
two  weeks  of  incubation  the  young  are  out. 

Excepting  the  American  goldfinch,  this  bird  builds 
later  in  the  spring  than  any  other,  —  its  nest,  in  our 
northern  climate,  seldom  being  undertaken  till  July. 
As  with  the  goldfinch,  the  reason  is,  probably,  that 
suitable  food  for  the  young  cannot  be  had  at  an 
earlier  period. 

Like  most  of  our  common  species,  as  the  robin, 
sparrow,  bluebird,  pewee,  wren,  etc.,  this  bird 
sometimes  seeks  wild,  remote  localities  in  which  to 
rear  its  young;  at  others,  takes  up  its  abode  near 
that  of  man.  I  knew  a  pair  of  cedar-birds,  one 
season,  to  build  in  an  apple-tree,  the  branches  of 
which  rubbed  against  the  house.  For  a  day  or  two 
before  the  first  straw  was  laid,  I  noticed  the  pair 
carefully  exploring  every  branch  of  the  tree,  the 
female  taking  the  lead,  the  male  following  her  with 
an  anxious  note  and  look.  It  was  evident  that  the 
wife  was  to  have  her  choice  this  time;  and,  like 


BIRDS'-NESTS  95 

one  who  thoroughly  knew  her  mind,  she  was  pro- 
ceeding to  take  it.  Finally  the  site  was  chosen 
upon  a  high  branch,  extending  over  one  low  wing 
of  the  house.  Mutual  congratulations  and  caresses 
followed,  when  both  birds  flew  away  in  quest  of 
building  material.  That  most  freely  used  is  a  sort 
of  cotton-bearing  plant  which  grows  in  old  worn- 
out  fields.  The  nest  is  large  for  the  size  of  the 
bird,  and  very  soft.  It  is  in  every  respect  a  first- 
class  domicile. 

On  another  occasion,  while  walking  or  rather 
sauntering  in  the  woods  (for  I  have  discovered  that 
one  cannot  run  and  read  the  book  of  nature),  my 
attention  was  arrested  by  a  dull  hammering,  evi- 
dently but  a  few  rods  off.  I  said  to  myself,  "  Some 
one  is  building  a  house."  From  what  I  had  pre- 
viously seen,  I  suspected  the  builder  to  be  a  red- 
headed woodpecker  in  the  top  of  a  dead  oak  stub 
near  by.  Moving  cautiously  in  that  direction,  I 
perceived  a  round  hole,  about  the  size  of  that  made 
by  an  inch-and-a-half  auger,  near  the  top  of  the 
decayed  trunk,  and  the  white  chips  of  the  workman 
strewing  the  ground  beneath.  When  but  a  few 
paces  from  the  tree,  my  foot  pressed  upon  a  dry 
twig,  which  gave  forth  a  very  slight  snap.  In- 
stantly the  hammering  ceased,  and  a  scarlet  head 
appeared  at  the  door.  Though  I  remained  perfectly 
motionless,  forbearing  even  to  wink  till  my  eyes 
smarted,  the  bird  refused  to  go  on  with  his  work, 
but  flew  quietly  off  to  a  neighboring  tree.  What 
surprised  me  was,  that,  amid  his  busy  occupation 


96  WAKE-ROBIN 

down  in  the  heart  of  the  old  tree,  he  should  have 
been  so  alert  and  watchful  as  to  catch  the  slightest 
sound  from  without. 

The  woodpeckers  all  build  in  about  the  same 
manner,  excavating  the  trunk  or  branch  of  a  de- 
cayed tree  and  depositing  the  eggs  on  the  fine  frag- 
ments of  wood  at  the  bottom  of  the  cavity.  Though 
the  nest  is  not  especially  an  artistic  work,  —  requir- 
ing strength  rather  than  skill,  — yet  the  eggs  and 
the  young  of  few  other  birds  are  so  completely 
housed  from  the  elements,  or  protected  from  their 
natural  enemies,  the  jays,  crows,  hawks,  and  owls. 
A  tree  with  a  natural  cavity  is  never  selected,  but 
one  which  has  been  dead  just  long  enough  to  have 
become  soft  and  brittle  throughout.  The  bird  goes 
in  horizontally  for  a  few  inches,  making  a  hole  per- 
fectly round  and  smooth  and  adapted  to  his  size, 
then  turns  downward,  gradually  enlarging  the  hole, 
as  he  proceeds,  to  the  depth  of  ten,  fifteen,  twenty 
inches,  according  to  the  softness  of  the  tree  and  the 
urgency  of  the  mother  bird  to  deposit  her  eggs. 
While  excavating,  male  and  female  work  alternately. 
After  one  has  been  engaged  fifteen  or  twenty  min- 
utes, drilling  and  carrying  out  chips,  it  ascends  to 
an  upper  limb,  utters  a  loud  call  or  two,  when  its 
mate  soon  appears,  and,  alighting  near  it  on  the 
branch,  the  pair  chatter  and  caress  a  moment,  then 
the  fresh  one  enters  the  cavity  and  the  other  flies 
away. 

A  few  days  since  I  climbed  up  to  the  nest  of  the 
downy  woodpecker,  in  the  decayed  top  of  a  sugar 


BIRDS-NESTS  97 

maple.  For  better  protection  against  driving  rains, 
the  hole,  which  was  rather  more  than  an  inch  in 
diameter,  was  made  immediately  beneath  a  branch 
which  stretched  out  almost  horizontally  from  the 
main  stem.  It  appeared  merely  a  deeper  shadow 
upon  the  dark  and  mottled  surface  of  the  bark  with 
which  the  branches  were  covered,  and  could  not  be 
detected  by  the  eye  until  one  was  within  a  few  feet 
of  it.  The  young  chirped  vociferously  as  I  ap- 
proached the  nest,  thinking  it  was  the  old  one  with 
food;  but  the  clamor  suddenly  ceased  as  I  put  my 
hand  on  that  part  of  the  trunk  in  which  they  were 
concealed,  the  unusual  jarring  and  rustling  alarming 
them  into  silence.  The  cavity,  which  was  about 
fifteen  inches  deep,  was  gourd-shaped,  and  was 
wrought  out  with  great  skill  and  regularity.  The 
walls  were  quite  smooth  and  clean  and  new. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  circumstance  of  observing 
a  pair  of  yellow-bellied  woodpeckers  —  the  most 
rare  and  secluded,  and,  next  to  the  red-headed,  the 
most  beautiful  species  found  in  our  woods  —  breed- 
ing in  an  old,  truncated  beech  in  the  Beaverkill 
Mountains,  an  offshoot  of  the  Catskills.  We  had 
been  traveling,  three  of  us,  all  day  in  search  of  a 
trout  lake,  which  lay  far  in  among  the  mountains, 
had  twice  lost  our  course  in  the  trackless  forest, 
and,  weary  and  hungry,  had  sat  down  to  rest  upon 
a  decayed  log.  The  chattering  of  the  young,  and 
the  passing  to  and  fro  of  the  parent  birds,  soon 
arrested  my  attention.  The  entrance  to  the  nest 
was  on  the  east  side  of  the  tree,  about  twenty-five 


98  WAKE-ROBIN 

feet  from  the  ground.  At  intervals  of  scarcely  a 
minute,  the  old  birds,  one  after  another,  would 
alight  upon  the  edge  of  the  hole  with  a  grub  or 
worm  in  their  beaks;  then  each  in  turn  would  make 
a  bow  or  two,  cast  an  eye  quickly  around,  and  by  a 
single  movement  place  itself  in  the  neck  of  the 
passage.  Here  it  would  pause  a  moment,  as  if  to 
determine  in  which  expectant  mouth  to  place  the 
morsel,  and  then  disappear  within.  In  about  half 
a  minute,  during  which  time  the  chattering  of  the 
young  gradually  subsided,  the  bird  would  again 
emerge,  but  this  time  bearing  in  its  beak  the  ordure 
of  one  of  the  helpless  family.  Flying  away  very 
slowly  with  head  lowered  and  extended,  as  if  anx- 
ious to  hold  the  offensive  object  as  far  from  its 
plumage  as  possible,  the  bird  dropped  the  unsavory 
morsel  in  the  course  of  a  few  yards,  and,  alighting 
on  a  tree,  wiped  its  bill  on  the  bark  and  moss. 
This  seems  to  be  the  order  all  day,  —  carrying  in 
and  carrying  out.  I  watched  the  birds  for  an  hour, 
while  my  companions  were  taking  their  turn  in 
exploring  the  lay  of  the  land  around  us,  and  noted 
no  variation  in  the  programme.  It  would  be  curi- 
ous to  know  if  the  young  are  fed  and  waited  upon 
in  regular  order,  and  how,  amid  the  darkness  and 
the  crowded  state  of  the  apartment,  the  matter  is 
so  neatly  managed.  But  ornithologists  are  all  silent 
upon  the  subject. 

This  practice  of  the  birds  is  not  so  uncommon 
as  it  might  at  first  seem.  It  is  indeed  almost  an 
invariable  rule  among  all  land  birds.  With  wood- 


BIRDS'-NESTS  99 

peckers  and  kindred  species,  and  with  birds  that 
burrow  in  the  ground,  as  bank  swallows,  kingfishers, 
etc.,  it  is  a  necessity.  The  accumulation  of  the 
excrement  in  the  nest  would  prove  most  fatal  to  the 
young. 

But  even  among  birds  that  neither  bore  nor  mine, 
but  which  build  a  shallow  nest  on  the  branch  of  a 
tree  or  upon  the  ground,  as  the  robin,  the  finches, 
the  buntings,  etc.,  the  ordure  of  the  young  is  re- 
moved to  a  distance  by  the  parent  bird.  When 
the  robin  is  seen  going  away  from  its  brood  with  a 
slow  heavy  flight,  entirely  different  from  its  manner 
a  moment  before  on  approaching  the  nest  with  a 
cherry  or  worm,  it  is  certain  to  be  engaged  in  this 
office.  One  may  observe  the  social  sparrow,  when 
feeding  its  young,  pause  a  moment  after  the  worm 
has  been  given  and  hop  around  on  the  brink  of  the 
nest  observing  the  movements  within. 

The  instinct  of  cleanliness  no  doubt  prompts  the 
action  in  all  cases,  though  the  disposition  to  secrecy 
or  concealment  may  not  be  unmixed  with  it. 

The  swallows  form  an  exception  to  the  rule,  the 
excrement  being  voided  by  the  young  over  the 
brink  of  the  nest.  They  form  an  exception,  also, 
to  the  rule  of  secrecy,  aiming  not  so  much  to  con- 
ceal the  nest  as  to  render  it  inaccessible. 

Other  exceptions  are  the  pigeons,  hawks,  and 
water-fowls. 

But  to  return.  Having  a  good  chance  to  note 
the  color  and  markings  of  the  woodpeckers  as  they 
passed  in  and  out  at  the  opening  of  the  nest,  I  saw 


100  WAKE-ROBIN 

that  Audubon  had  made  a  mistake  in  figuring  or 
describing  the  female  of  this  species  with  the  red 
spot  upon  the  head.  I  have  seen  a  number  of  pairs 
of  them,  and  in  no  instance  have  I  seen  the  mother- 
bird  marked  with  red. 

The  male  was  in  full  plumage,  and  I  reluctantly 
shot  him  for  a  specimen.  Passing  by  the  place 
again  next  day,  I  paused  a  moment  to  note  how 
matters  stood.  I  confess  it  was  not  without  some 
compunctions  that  I  heard  the  cries  of  the  young 
birds,  and  saw  the  widowed  mother,  her  cares  now 
doubled,  hastening  to  and  fro  in  the  solitary  woods. 
She  would  occasionally  pause  expectantly  on  the 
trunk  of  a  tree  and  utter  a  loud  call. 

It  usually  happens,  when  the  male  of  any  species 
is  killed  during  the  breeding  season,  that  the  female 
soon  procures  another  mate.  There  are,  most  likely, 
always  a  few  unmated  birds  of  both  sexes  within 
a  given  range,  and  through  these  the  broken  links 
may  be  restored.  Audubon  or  Wilson,  I  forget 
which,  tells  of  a  pair  of  fish  hawks,  or  ospreys,  that 
built  their  nest  in  an  ancient  oak.  The  male  was 
so  zealous  in  the  defense  of  the  young  that  it  ac- 
tually attacked  with  beak  and  claw  a  person  who 
attempted  to  climb  into  his  nest,  putting  his  face 
and  eyes  in  great  jeopardy.  Arming  himself  with 
a  heavy  club,  the  climber  felled  the  gallant  bird  to 
the  ground  and  killed  him.  In  the  course  of  a  few 
days  the  female  had  procured  another  mate.  But 
naturally  enough  the  stepfather  showed  none  of  the 
spirit  and  pluck  in  defense  of  the  brood  that  had 


BIRDS'-NESTS  101 

been  displayed  by  the  original  parent.  When  dan- 
ger was  nigh  he  was  seen  afar  off,  sailing  around  in 
placid  unconcern. 

It  is  generally  known  that  when  either  the  wild 
turkey  or  domestic  turkey  begins  to  lay,  and  after- 
wards to  sit  and  rear  the  brood,  she  secludes  herself 
from  the  male,  who  then,  very  sensibly,  herds  with 
others  of  his  sex,  and  betakes  himself  to  haunts  of 
his  own  till  male  and  female,  old  and  young,  meet 
again  on  common  ground,  late  in  the  fall.  But  rob 
the  sitting  bird  of  her  eggs,  or  destroy  her  tender 
young,  and  she  immediately  sets  out  in  quest  of  a 
male,  who  is  no  laggard  when  he  hears  her  call. 
The  same  is  true  of  ducks  and  other  aquatic  fowls. 
The  propagating  instinct  is  strong,  and  surmounts 
all  ordinary  difficulties.  No  doubt  the  widowhood 
I  had  caused  in  the  case  of  the  woodpeckers  was  of 
short  duration,  and  chance  brought,  or  the  widow 
drummed  up,  some  forlorn  male,  who  was  not  dis- 
mayed by  the  prospect  of  having  a  large  family  of 
half-grown  birds  on  his  hands  at  the  outset. 

I  have  seen  a  fine  cock  robin  paying  assiduous 
addresses  to  a  female  bird  as  late  as  the  middle  of 
July;  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  his  intentions  were 
honorable.  I  watched  the  pair  for  half  an  hour. 
The  hen,  I  took  it,  was  in  the  market  for  the  second 
time  that  season;  but  the  cock,  from  his  bright, 
unfaded  plumage,  looked  like  a  new  arrival.  The 
hen  resented  every  advance  of  the  male.  In  vain 
he  strutted  around  her  and  displayed  his  fine  fea- 
thers; every  now  and  then  she  would  make  at  him 


102  WAKE-ROBIN 

in  a  most  spiteful  manner.  He  followed  her  to  the 
ground,  poured  into  her  ear  a  fine,  half-suppressed 
warble,  offered  her  a  worm,  flew  back  to  the  tree 
again  with  a  great  spread  of  plumage,  hopped  around 
her  on  the  branches,  chirruped,  chattered,  flew  gal- 
lantly at  an  intruder,  and  was  back  in  an  instant  at 
her  side.  No  use,  —  she  cut  him  short  at  every 
turn. 

The  denouement  I  cannot  relate,  as  the  artful 
bird,  followed  by  her  ardent  suitor,  soon  flew  away 
beyond  my  sight.  It  may  not  be  rash  to  conclude, 
however,  that  she  held  out  no  longer  than  was  pru- 
dent. 

On  the  whole,  there  seems  to  be  a  system  of 
Women's  Bights  prevailing  among  trie  birds,  which, 
contemplated  from  the  standpoint  of  the  male,  is 
quite  admirable.  In  almost  all  cases  of  joint  inter- 
est, the  female  bird  is  the  most  active.  She  deter- 
mines the  site  of  the  nest,  and  is  usually  the  most 
absorbed  in  its  construction.  Generally,  she  is  more 
vigilant  in  caring  for  the  young,  and  manifests  the 
most  concern  when  danger  threatens.  Hour  after 
hour  I  have  seen  the  mother  of  a  brood  of  blue 
grosbeaks  pass  from  the  nearest  meadow  to  the  tree 
that  held  her  nest,  with  a  cricket  or  grasshopper  in 
her  bill,  while  her  better-dressed  half  was  singing 
serenely  on  a  distant  tree  or  pursuing  his  pleasure 
amid  the  branches. 

Yet  among  the  majority  of  our  song-birds  the 
male  is  most  conspicuous  both  by  his  color  and 
manners  and  by  his  song,  and  is  to  that  extent  a 


BIKDS'-NESTS  103 

shield  to  the  female.  It  is  thought  that  the  female 
is  humbler  clad  for  her  better  concealment  during 
incubation.  But  this  is  not  satisfactory,  as  in  some 
cases  she  is  relieved  from  time  to  time  by  the  male. 
In  the  case  of  the  domestic  dove,  for  instance, 
promptly  at  midday  the  cock  is  found  upon  the 
nest.  I  should  say  that  the  dull  or  neutral  tints  of 
the  female  were  a  provision  of  nature  for  her  greater 
safety  at  all  times,  as  her  life  is  far  more  precious 
to  the  species  than  that  of  the  male.  The  indis- 
pensable office  of  the  male  reduces  itself  to  little 
more  than  a  moment  of  time,  while  that  of  his  mate 
extends  over  days  and  weeks,  if  not  months.1 

In  migrating  northward,  the  males  precede  the 
females  by  eight  or  ten  days;  returning  in  the  fall, 
the  females  and  young  precede  the  males  by  about 
the  same  time. 

After  the  woodpeckers  have  abandoned  their 
nests,  or  rather  chambers,  which  they  do  after  the 
first  season,  their  cousins,  the  nuthatches,  chicka- 
dees, and  brown  creepers,  fall  heir  to  them.  These 

1  A  recent  English  -writer  upon  this  subject  presents  an  array 
of  facts  and  considerations  that  do  not  support  this  view.  He 
says  that,  with  very  few  exceptions,  it  is  the  rule  that,  when  both 
sexes  are  of  strikingly  gay  and  conspicuous  colors,  the  nest  is 
such  as  to  conceal  the  sitting  bird ;  while,  whenever  there  is  a 
striking  contrast  of  colors,  the  male  being  gay  and  conspicuous, 
the  female  dull  and  obscure,  the  nest  is  open  and  the  sitting  bird 
exposed  to  view.  The  exceptions  to  this  rule  among  European 
birds  appear  to  be  very  few.  Among  our  own  birds,  the  cuckoos 
and  blue  jays  build  open  nests,  without  presenting  any  notice- 
able difference  in  the  coloring  of  the  two  sexes.  The  same  is  true 
of  the  pewees,  the  kingbird  and  the  sparrows,  while  the  common 
bluebird,  the  oriole,  and  orchard  starling  afford  examples  the 
other  way. 


104  WAKE-ROBIN 

birds,  especially  the  creepers  and  nuthatches,  have 
many  of  the  habits  of  the  Picidce,  but  lack  their 
powers  of  bill,  and  so  are  unable  to  excavate  a  nest 
for  themselves.  Their  habitation,  therefore,  is  al- 
ways second-hand.  But  each  species  carries  in  some 
soft  material  of  various  kinds,  or,  in  other  words, 
furnishes  the  tenement  to  its  liking.  The  chicka- 
dee arranges  in  the  bottom  of  the  cavity  a  little 
mat  of  a  light  felt-like  substance,  which  looks  as  if 
it  came  from  the  hatter's,  but  which  is  probably 
the  work  of  numerous  worms  or  caterpillars.  On 
this  soft  lining  the  female  deposits  six  speckled  eggs. 

I  recently  discovered  one  of  these  nests  in  a  most 
interesting  situation.  The  tree  containing  it,  a 
variety  of  the  wild  cherry,  stood  upon  the  brink  of 
the  bald  summit  of  a  high  mountain.  Gray,  time- 
worn  rocks  lay  piled  loosely  about,  or  overtoppled 
the  just  visible  byways  of  the  red  fox.  The  trees 
had  a  half-scared  look,  and  that  indescribable  wild- 
ness  which  lurks  about  the  tops  of  all  remote  moun- 
tains possessed  the  place.  Standing  there,  I  looked 
down  upon  the  back  of  the  red-tailed  hawk  as  he 
flew  out  over  the  earth  beneath  me.  Following 
him,  my  eye  also  took  in  farms  and  settlements  and 
villages  and  other  mountain  ranges  that  grew  blue 
in  the  distance. 

The  parent  birds  attracted  my  attention  by  ap- 
pearing with  food  in  their  beaks,  and  by  seeming 
much  put  out.  Yet  so  wary  were  they  of  revealing 
the  locality  of  their  brood,  or  even  of  the  precise 
tree  that  held  them,  that  I  lurked  around  over  an 


BIRDS'-NESTS  105 

hour  without  gaining  a  point  on  them.  Finally  a 
bright  and  curious  boy  who  accompanied  me  secreted 
himself  under  a  low,  projecting  rock  close  to  the 
tree  in  which  we  supposed  the  nest  to  be,  while  I 
moved  off  around  the  mountain- side.  It  was  not 
long  before  the  youth  had  their  secret.  The  tree,, 
which  was  low  and  wide- branching,  and  overrun 
with  lichens,  appeared  at  a  cursory  glance  to  con- 
tain not  one  dry  or  decayed  limb.  Yet  there  was 
one  a  few  feet  long,  in  which,  when  my  eyes  were 
piloted  thither,  I  detected  a  small  round  orifice. 

As  my  weight  began  to  shake  the  branches,  the 
consternation  of  both  old  and  young  was  great. 
The  stump  of  a  limb  that  held  the  nest  was  about 
three  inches  thick,  and  at  the  bottom  of  the  tunnel 
was  excavated  quite  to  the  bark.  With  my  thumb 
I  broke  in  the  thin  wall,  and  the  young,  which 
were  full-fledged,  looked  out  upon  the  world  for  the 
first  time.  Presently  one  of  them,  with  a  signifi- 
cant chirp,  as  much  as  to  say,  "It  is  time  we  were 
out  of  this,"  began  to  climb  up  toward  the  proper 
entrance.  Placing  himself  in  the  hole,  he  looked 
around  without  manifesting  any  surprise  at  the 
grand  scene  that  lay  spread  out  before  him.  He 
was  taking  his  bearings,  and  determining  how  far  he 
could  trust  the  power  of  his  untried  wings  to  take 
him  out  of  harm's  way.  After  a  moment's  pause, 
with  a  loud  chirrup,  he  launched  out  and  made 
tolerable  headway.  The  others  rapidly  followed. 
Each  one,  as  it  started  upward,  from  a  sudden  im- 
pulse, contemptuously  saluted  the  abandoned  nest 
with  its  excrement. 


106  WAKE-ROBIN 

Though  generally  regular  in  their  hahits  and 
instincts,  yet  the  birds  sometimes  seem  as  whimsi- 
cal and  capricious  as  superior  beings.  One  is  not 
safe,  for  instance,  in  making  any  absolute  assertion 
as  to  their  place  or  mode  of  building.  Ground- 
builders  often  get  up  into  a  bush,  and  tree- builders 
sometimes  get  upon  the  ground  or  into  a  tussock 
of  grass.  The  song  sparrow,  which  is  a  ground- 
builder,  has  been  known  to  build  in  the  knothole 
of  a  fence  rail;  and  a  chimney  swallow  once  got 
tired  of  soot  and  smoke,  and  fastened  its  nest  on  a 
rafter  in  a  hay  barn.  A  friend  tells  me  of  a  pair 
of  barn  swallows  which,  taking  a  fanciful  turn, 
saddled  their  nest  in  the  loop  of  a  rope  that  was 
pendent  from  a  peg  in  the  peak,  and  liked  it  so 
well  that  they  repeated  the  experiment  next  year. 
I  have  known  the  social  sparrow,  or  "hairbird,"  to 
build  under  a  shed,  in  a  tuft  of  hay  that  hung 
down,  through  the  loose  flooring,  from  the  mow 
above.  It  usually  contents  itself  with  half  a  dozen 
stalks  of  dry  grass  and  a  few  long  hairs  from  a  cow's 
tail  loosely  arranged  on  the  branch  of  an  apple-tree. 
The  rough-winged  swallow  builds  in  the  wall  and 
in  old  stone-heaps,  and  I  have  seen  the  robin  build 
in  similar  localities.  Others  have  found  its  nest  in 
old,  abandoned  wells.  The  house  wren  will  build 
in  anything  that  has  an  accessible  cavity,  from  an 
old  boot  to  a  bombshell.  A  pair  of  them  once  per- 
sisted in  building  their  nest  in  the  top  of  a  certain 
pump-tree,  getting  in  through  the  opening  above 
the  handle.  The  pump  being  in  daily  use,  the  nest 


BIRDS'-NESTS  107 

was  destroyed  more  than  a  score  of  times.  This 
jealous  little  wretch  has  the  wise  forethought,  when 
the  box  in  which  he  builds  contains  two  compart- 
ments, to  fill  up  one  of  them,  so  as  to  avoid  the 
risk  of  troublesome  neighbors. 

The  less  skillful  builders  sometimes  depart  from 
their  usual  habit,  and  take  up  with  the  abandoned 
nest  of  some  other  species.  The  blue  jay  now  and 
then  lays  in  an  old  crow's  nest  or  cuckoo's  nest. 
The  crow  blackbird,  seized  with  a  fit  of  indolence, 
drops  its  eggs  in  the  cavity  of  a  decayed  branch. 
I  heard  of  a  cuckoo  that  dispossessed  a  robin  of  its 
nest;  of  another  that  set  a  blue  jay  adrift.  Large, 
loose  structures,  like  the  nests  of  the  osprey  and 
certain  of  the  herons,  have  been  found  with  half  a 
dozen  nests  of  the  blackbird  set  in  the  outer  edges, 
like  so  many  parasites,  or,  as  Audubon  says,  like 
the  retainers  about  the  rude  court  of  a  feudal  baron. 

The  same  birds  breeding  in  a  southern  climate 
construct  far  less  elaborate  nests  than  when  breed- 
ing in  a  northern  climate.  Certain  species  of  water- 
fowl, that  abandon  their  eggs  to  the  sand  and  the 
sun  in  the  warmer  zones,  build  a  nest  and  sit  in 
the  usual  way  in  Labrador.  In  Georgia,  the  Balti- 
more oriole  places  its  nest  upon  the  north  side  of 
the  tree;  in  the  Middle  and  Eastern  States,  it  fixes 
it  upon  the  south  or  east  side,  and  makes  it  much 
thicker  and  warmer.  I  have  seen  one  from  the 
South  that  had  some  kind  of  coarse  reed  or  sedge 
woven  into  it,  giving  it  an  open-work  appearance, 
like  a  basket. 


108  WAKE-ROBIN 

Very  few  species  use  the  same  material  uniformly. 
I  have  seen  the  nest  of  the  robin  quite  destitute'  of 
mud.  In  one  instance  it  was  composed  mainly  of 
long  black  horse-hairs,  arranged  in  a  circular  man- 
ner, with  a  lining  of  fine  yellow  grass;  the  whole 
presenting  quite  a  novel  appearance.  In  another 
case  the  nest  was  chiefly  constructed  of  a  species  of 
rock  moss. 

The  nest  for  the  second  brood  during  the  same 
season  is  often  a  mere  makeshift.  The  haste  of 
the  female  to  deposit  her  eggs  as  the  season  advances 
seems  very  great,  and  the  structure  is  apt  to*  be 
prematurely  finished.  I  was  recently  reminded  of 
this  fact  by  happening,  about  the  last  of  July,  to 
meet  with  several  nests  of  the  wood  or  bush  spar- 
row in  a  remote  blackberry  field.  The  nests  with 
eggs  were  far  less  elaborate  and  compact  than  the 
earlier  nests,  from  which  the  young  had  flown. 

Day  after  day,  as  I  go  to  a  certain  piece  of 
woods,  I  observe  a  male  indigo-bird  sitting  on  pre- 
cisely the  same  part  of  a  high  branch,  and  singing 
in  his  most  vivacious  style.  As  I  approach  he 
ceases  to  sing,  and,  flirting  his  tail  right  and  left 
with  marked  emphasis,  chirps  sharply.  In  a  low 
bush  near  by,  I  come  upon  the  object  of  his  solici- 
tude, —  a  thick,  compact  nest  composed  largely  of 
dry  leaves  and  fine  grass,  in  which  a  plain  brown 
bird  is  sitting  upon  four  pale  blue  eggs. 

The  wonder  is  that  a  bird  will  leave  the  appar- 
ent security  of  the  treetops  to  place  its  nest  in  the 
way  of  the  many  dangers  that  walk  and  crawl  upon 


BIRDS'-NESTS  109 

the  ground.  There,  far  up  out  of  reach,  sings  the 
bird;  here,  not  three  feet  from  the  ground,  are  its 
eggs  or  helpless  young.  The  truth  is,  birds  are  the 
greatest  enemies  of  birds,  and  it  is  with  reference 
to  this  fact  that  many  of  the  smaller  species  build. 

Perhaps  the  greatest  proportion  of  birds  breed 
along  highways.  I  have  known  the  ruffed  grouse 
to  come  out  of  a  dense  wood  and  make  its  nest  at 
the  root  of  a  tree  within  ten  paces  of  the  road, 
where,  no  doubt,  hawks  and  crows,  as  well  as 
skunks  and  foxes,  would  be  less  likely  to  find  it 
out.  Traversing  remote  mountain-roads  through 
dense  woods,  I  have  repeatedly  seen  the  veery,  or 
Wilson's  thrush,  sitting  upon  her  nest,  so  near  me 
that  I  could  almost  take  her  from  it  by  stretching 
out  my  hand.  Birds  of  prey  show  none  of  this 
confidence  in  man,  and,  when  locating  their  nests, 
avoid  rather  than  seek  his  haunts. 

In  a  certain  locality  in  the  interior  of  New  York, 
I  know,  every  season,  where  I  am  sure  to  find  a 
nest  or  two  of  the  slate-colored  snowbird.  It  is 
under  the  brink  of  a  low  mossy  bank,  so  near  the 
highway  that  it  could  be  reached  from  a  passing 
vehicle  with  a  whip.  Every  horse  or  wagon  or 
foot  passenger  disturbs  the  sitting  bird.  She  awaits 
the  near  approach  of  the  sound  of  feet  or  wheels, 
and  then  darts  quickly  across  the  road,  barely  clear- 
ing the  ground,  and  disappears  amid  the  bushes  on 
the  opposite  side. 

In  the  trees  that  line  one  of  the  main  streets  and 
fashionable  drives  leading  out  of  Washington  city} 


110  WAKE-ROBIN 

and  less  than  half  a  mile  from  the  boundary,  I  have 
counted  the  nests  of  five  different  species  at  one 
time,  and  that  without  any  very  close  scrutiny  of 
the  foliage,  while,  in  many  acres  of  woodland  half 
a  mile  off,  I  searched  in  vain  for  a  single  nest. 
Among  the  five,  the  nest  that  interested  me  most 
was  that  of  the  blue  grosbeak.  Here  this  bird, 
which,  according  to  Audubon's  observations  in  Lou- 
isiana, is  shy  and  recluse,  affecting  remote  marshes 
and  the  borders  of  large  ponds  of  stagnant  water, 
had  placed  its  nest  in  the  lowest  twig  of  the  lowest 
branch  of  a  large  sycamore,  immediately  over  a 
great  thoroughfare,  and  so  near  the  ground  that  a 
person  standing  in  a  cart  or  sitting  on  a  horse  could 
have  reached  it  with  his  hand.  The  nest  was  com- 
posed mainly  of  fragments  of  newspaper  and  stalks 
of  grass,  and,  though  so  low,  was  remarkably  well 
concealed  by  one  of  the  peculiar  clusters  of  twigs 
and  leaves  which  characterize  this  tree.  The  nest 
contained  young  when  I  discovered  it,  and,  though 
the  parent  birds  were  much  annoyed  by  my  loiter- 
ing about  beneath  the  tree,  they  paid  little  atten- 
tion to  the  stream  of .  vehicles  that  was  constantly 
passing.  It  was  a  wonder  to  me  when  the  birds 
could  have  built  it,  for  they  are  much  shyer  when 
building  than  at  other  times.  No  doubt  they 
worked  mostly  in  the  morning,  having  the  early 
hours  all  to  themselves. 

Another  pair  of  blue  grosbeaks  built  in  a  grave- 
yard within  the  city  limits.  The  nest  was  placed 
in  a  low  bush,  and  the  male  continued  to  sing  at 


BIEDS'-NESTS  111 

intervals  till  the  young  were  ready  to  fly.  The 
song  of  this  bird  is  a  rapid,  intricate  warble,  like 
that  of  the  indigo- bird,  though  stronger  and  louder. 
Indeed,  these  two  birds  so  much  resemble  each 
other  in  color,  form,  manner,  voice,  and  general 
habits  that,  were  it  not  for  the  difference  in  size, 
—  the  grosbeak  being  nearly  as  large  again  as  the 
indigo-bird,  —  it  would  be  a  hard  matter  to  tell 
them  apart.  The  females  of  both  species  are  clad 
in  the  same  reddish-brown  suits.  So  are  the  young 
the  first  season. 

Of  course  in  the  deep,  primitive  woods,  also,  are 
nests;  but  how  rarely  we  find  them!  The  simple 
art  of  the  bird  consists  in  choosing  common,  neu- 
tral-tinted material,  as  moss,  dry  leaves,  twigs,  and 
various  odds  and  ends,  and  placing  the  structure  on 
a  convenient  branch,  where  it  blends  in  color  with 
its  surroundings;  but  how  consummate  is  this  art, 
and  how  skillfully  is  the  nest  concealed !  We  occa- 
sionally light  upon  it,  but  who,  unaided  by  the 
movements  of  the  bird,  could  find  it  out?  During 
the  present  season  I  went  to  the  woods  nearly  every 
day  for  a  fortnight  without  making  any  discoveries 
of  this  kind,  till  one  day,  paying  them  a  farewell 
visit,  I  chanced  to  come  upon  several  nests.  A 
black  and  white  creeping  warbler  suddenly  became 
much  alarmed  as  I  approached  a  crumbling  old 
stump  in  a  dense  part  of  the  forest.  He  alighted 
upon  it,  chirped  sharply,  ran  up  and  down  its 
sides,  and  finally  left  it  with  much  reluctance. 
The  nest,  which  contained  three  young  birds  nearly 


112  WAKE-ROBIN 

fledged,  was  placed  upon  the  ground,  at  the  foot 
of  the  stump,  and  in  such  a  position  that  the  color 
of  the  young  harmonized  perfectly  with  the  bits  of 
bark,  sticks,  etc.,  lying  about.  My  eye  rested  upon 
them  for  the  second  time  before  I  made  them  out. 
They  hugged  the  nest  very  closely,  but  as  I  put 
down  my  hand  they  all  scampered  off  with  loud 
cries  for  help,  which  caused  the  parent  birds  to 
place  themselves  almost  within  my  reach.  The 
nest  was  merely  a  little  dry  grass  arranged  in  a 
thick  bed  of  dry  leaves. 

This  was  amid  a  thick  undergrowth.  Moving  on 
into  a  passage  of  large  stately  hemlocks,  with  only 
here  and  there  a  small  beech  or  maple  rising  up 
into  the  perennial  twilight,  I  paused  to  make  out 
a  note  which  was  entirely  new  to  me.  It  is  still 
in  my  ear.  Though  unmistakably  a  bird  note,  it 
yet  suggested  the  bleating  of  a  tiny  lambkin. 
Presently  the  birds  appeared,  —  a  pair  of  the  soli- 
tary vireo.  They  came  flitting  from  point  to  point, 
alighting  only  for  a  moment  at  a  time,  the  male 
silent,  but  the  female  uttering  this  strange,  tender 
note.  It  was  a  rendering  into  some  new  sylvan 
dialect  of  the  human  sentiment  of  maidenly  love. 
It  was  really  pathetic  in  its  sweetness  and  childlike 
confidence  and  joy.  I  soon  discovered  that  the 
pair  were  building  a  nest  upon  a  low  branch  a  few 
yards  from  me.  The  male  flew  cautiously  to  the 
spot  and  adjusted  something,  and  the  twain  moved 
on,  the  female  calling  to  her  mate  at  intervals, 
love-e,  with  a  cadence  and  tenderness  in  the 


BIRDS'-NESTS  113 

tone  that  rang  in  the  ear  long  afterward.  The  nest 
was  suspended  to  the  fork  of  a  small  branch,  as  is 
usual  with  the  vireos,  plentifully  lined  with  lichens, 
and  bound  and  rebound  with  masses  of  coarse  spider- 
webs.  There  was  no  attempt  at  concealment  except 
in  the  neutral  tints,  which  made  it  look  like  a 
natural  growth  of  the  dim,  gray  woods. 

Continuing  my  random  walk,  I  next  paused  in  a 
low  part  of  the  woods,  where  the  larger  trees  began 
to  give  place  to  a  thick  second-growth  that  covered 
an  old  Barkpeeling.  I  was  standing  by  a  large 
maple,  when  a  small  bird  darted  quickly  away  from 
it,  as  if  it  might  have  come  out  of  a  hole  near  its 
base.  As  the  bird  paused  a  few  yards  from  me, 
and  began  to  chirp  uneasily,  my  curiosity  was  at 
once  excited.  When  I  saw  it  was  the  female 
mourning  ground  warbler,  and  remembered  that  the 
nest  of  this  bird  had  not  yet  been  seen  by  any 
naturalist,  —  that  not  even  Dr.  Brewer  had  ever 
seen  the  eggs,  —  I  felt  that  here  was  something 
worth  looking  for.  So  I  carefully  began  the  search, 
exploring  inch  by  inch  the  ground,  the  base  and 
roots  of  the  tree,  and  the  various  shrubby  growths 
about  it,  till,  finding  nothing  and  fearing  I  might 
really  put  my  foot  in  it,  I  bethought  me  to  with- 
draw to  a  distance  and  after  some  delay  return 
again,  and,  thus  forewarned,  note  the  exact  point 
from  which  the  bird  flew.  This  I  did,  and,  re- 
turning, had  little  difficulty  in  discovering  the  nest. 
It  was  placed  but  a  few  feet  from  the  maple-tree, 
in  a  bunch  of  ferns,  and  about  six  inches  from  the 


114  WAKE-ROBIN 

ground.  It  was  quite  a  massive  nest,  composed 
entirely  of  the  stalks  and  leaves  of  dry  grass,  with 
an  inner  lining  of  fine,  dark  brown  roots.  The 
eggs,  three  in  number,  were  of  light  flesh- color, 
uniformly  specked  with  fine  brown  specks.  The 
cavity  of  the  nest  was  so  deep  that  the  back  of  the 
sitting  bird  sank  below  the  edge. 

In  the  top  of  a  tall  tree,  a  short  distance  farther 
on,  I  saw  the  nest  of  the  red- tailed  hawk,  —  a  large 
mass  of  twigs  and  dry  sticks.  The  young  had 
flown,  but  still  lingered  in  the  vicinity,  and,  as  I 
approached,  the  mother  bird  flew  about  over  me, 
squealing  in  a  very  angry,  savage  manner.  Tufts 
of  the  hair  and  other  indigestible  material  of  the 
common  meadow  mouse  lay  around  on  the  ground 
beneath  the  nest. 

As  I  was  about  leaving  the  woods  my  hat  almost 
brushed  the  nest  of  the  red- eyed  vireo,  which  hung 
basket-like  on  the  end  of  a  low,  drooping  branch  of 
the  beech.  I  should  never  have  seen  it  had  the 
bird  kept  her  place.  It  contained  three  eggs  of  the 
bird's  own,  and  one  of  the  cow  bunting.  The 
strange  egg  was  only  just  perceptibly  larger  than 
the  others,  yet  three  days  after,  when  I  looked  into 
the  nest  again  and  found  all  but  one  egg  hatched, 
the  young  interloper  was  at  least  four  times  as  large 
as  either  of  the  others,  and  with  such  a  superabun- 
dance of  bowels  as  to  almost  smother  his  bedfellows 
beneath  them.  That  the  intruder  should  fare  the 
same  as  the  rightful  occupants,  and  thrive  with 
them,  was  more  than  ordinary  potluck;  but  that  it 


BIRDS'-NESTS  115 

alone  should  thrive,  devouring,  as  it  were,  all  the 
rest,  is  one  of  those  freaks  of  Nature  in  which  she 
would  seem  to  discourage  the  homely  virtues  of 
prudence  and  honesty.  Weeds  and  parasites  have 
the  odds  greatly  against  them,  yet  they  wage  a  very 
successful  war  nevertheless. 

The  woods  hold  not  such  another  gem  as  the  nest 
of  the  hummingbird.  The  finding  of  one  is  an 
event  to  date  from.  It  is  the  next  best  thing  to 
finding  an  eagle's  nest.  I  have  met  with  but  two, 
both  by  chance.  One  was  placed  on  the  horizontal 
branch  of  a  chestnut-tree,  with  a  solitary  green  leaf, 
forming  a  complete  canopy,  about  an  inch  and  a 
half  above  it.  The  repeated  spiteful  dartings  of 
the  bird  past  my  ears,  as  I  stood  under  the  tree, 
caused  me  to  suspect  that  I  was  intruding  upon 
some  one's  privacy;  and,  following  it  with  my  eye, 
I  soon  saw  the  nest,  which  was  in  process  of  con- 
struction. Adopting  my  usual  tactics  of  secreting 
myself  near  by,  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  the 
tiny  artist  at  work.  It  was  the  female,  unassisted 
by  her  mate.  At  intervals  of  two  or  three  minutes 
she  would  appear  with  a  small  tuft  of  some  cottony 
substance  in  her  beak,  dart  a  few  times  through  and 
around  the  tree,  and  alighting  quickly  in  the  nest, 
arrange  the  material  she  had  brought,  using  her 
breast  as  a  model. 

The  other  nest  I  discovered  in  a  dense  forest  on 
the  side  of  a  mountain.  The  sitting  bird  was  dis- 
turbed as  I  passed  beneath  her.  The  whirring  of 
her  wings  arrested  my  attention,  when,  after  a  short 


116  WAKE-ROBIN 

pause,  I  had  the  good  luck  to  see,  through  an  open- 
ing in  the  leaves,  the  bird  return  to  her  nest, 
which  appeared  like  a  mere  wart  or  excrescence  on 
a  small  branch.  The  hummingbird,  unlike  all 
others,  does  not  alight  upon  the  nest,  but  flies  into 
it.  She  enters  it  as  quick  as  a  flash,  but  as  light  as 
any  feather.  Two  eggs  are  the  complement.  They 
are  perfectly  white,  and  so  frail  that  only  a  woman's 
fingers  may  touch  them.  Incubation  lasts  about 
ten  days.  In  a  week  the  young  have  flown. 

The  only  nest  like  the  hummingbird's,  and  com- 
parable to  it  in  neatness  and  symmetry,  is  that  of 
the  blue-gray  gnatcatcher.  This  is  often  saddled 
upon  the  limb  in  the  same  manner,  though  it  is 
generally  more  or  less  pendent;  it  is  deep  and  soft, 
composed  mostly  of  some  vegetable  down  covered 
all  over  with  delicate  tree-lichens,  and,  except  that 
it  is  much  larger,  appears  almost  identical  with  the 
nest  of  the  hummingbird. 

But  the  nest  of  nests,  the  ideal  nest,  after  we 
have  left  the  deep  woods,  is  unquestionably  that  of 
the  Baltimore  oriole.  It  is  the  only  perfectly  pen- 
sile nest  we  have.  The  nest  of  the  orchard  oriole 
is  indeed  mainly  so,  but  this  bird  generally  builds 
lower  and  shallower,  more  after  the  manner  of  the 
vireos. 

The  Baltimore  oriole  loves  to  attach  its  nest  to 
the  swaying  branches  of  the  tallest  elms,  making  no 
attempt  at  concealment,  but  satisfied  if  the  position 
be  high  and  the  branch  pendent.  This  nest  would 
seem  to  cost  more  time  and  skill  than  any  othei 


BIRDS'-NESTS  117 

bird  structure.  A  peculiar  flax-like  substance  seems 
to  be  always  sought  after  and  always  found.  The 
nest  when  completed  assumes  the  form  of  a  large, 
suspended  gourd.  The  walls  are  thin  but  firm, 
and  proof  against  the  most  driving  rain.  The 
mouth  is  hemmed  or  overhanded  with  horse-hair, 
and  the  sides  are  usually  sewed  through  and  through 
with  the  same. 

Not  particular  as  to  the  matter  of  secrecy,  the 
bird  is  not  particular  as  to  material,  so  that  it  be  of 
the  nature  of  strings  or  threads.  A  lady  friend 
once  told  me  that,  while  working  by  an  open  win- 
dow, one  of  these  birds  approached  during  her 
momentary  absence,  and,  seizing  a  skein  of  some 
kind  of  thread  or  yarn,  made  off  with  it  to  its  half- 
finished  nest.  But  the  perverse  yarn  caught  fast 
in  the  branches,  and,  in  the  bird's  effort  to  extri- 
cate it,  got  hopelessly  tangled.  She  tugged  away 
at  it  all  day,  but  was  finally  obliged  to  content  her- 
self with  a  few  detached  portions.  The  fluttering 
strings  were  an  eyesore  to  her  ever  after,  and,  pass- 
ing and  repassing,  she  would  give  them  a  spiteful 
jerk,  as  much  as  to  say,  "There  is  that  confounded 
yarn  that  gave  me  so  much  trouble." 

From  Pennsylvania,  Vincent  Barnard  (to  whom 
I  am  indebted  for  other  curious  facts)  sent  me  this 
interesting  story  of  an  oriole.  He  says  a  friend  of 
his  curious  in  such  things,  on  observing  the  bird 
beginning  to  build,  hung  out  near  the  prospective 
nest  skeins  of  many-colored  zephyr  yarn,  which  the 
eager  artist  readily  appropriated.  He  managed  it 


118  WAKE-ROBIN 

so  that  the  hird  used  nearly  equal  quantities  of 
various  high,  bright  colors.  The  nest  was  made 
unusually  deep  and  capacious,  and  it  may  be  ques- 
tioned if  such  a  thing  of  beauty  was  ever  before 
woven  by  the  cunning  of  a  bird. 

Nuttall,  by  far  the  most  genial  of  American  orni- 
thologists, relates  the  following :  — 

"A  female  (oriole),  which  I  observed  attentively, 
carried  off  to  her  nest  a  piece  of  lamp-wick  ten  or 
twelve  feet  long.  This  long  string  and  many  other 
shorter  ones  were  left  hanging  out  for  about  a  week 
before  both  the  ends  were  wattled  into  the  sides  of 
the  nest.  Some  other  little  birds,  making  use  of 
similar  materials,  at  times  twitched  these  flowing 
ends,  and  generally  brought  out  the  busy  Baltimore 
from  her  occupation  in  great  anger. 

"I  may  perhaps  claim  indulgence  for  adding  a 
little  more  of  the  biography  of  this  particular  bird, 
as  a  representative  also  of  the  instincts  of  her  race. 
She  completed  the  nest  in  about  a  week's  time, 
without  any  aid  from  her  mate,  who  indeed  ap- 
peared but  seldom  in  her  company  and  was  now 
become  nearly  silent.  For  fibrous  materials  she 
broke,  hackled,  and  gathered  the  flax  of  the  as- 
clepias  and  hibiscus  stalks,  tearing  off  long  strings 
and  flying  with  them  to  the  scene  of  her  labors. 
She  appeared  very  eager  and  hasty  in  her  pursuits, 
and  collected  her  materials  without  fear  or  restraint 
while  three  men  were  working  in  the  neighboring 
walks  and  many  persons  visiting  the  garden.  Her 
courage  and  perseverance  were  indeed  truly  admir- 


BIRDS-NESTS  119 

able.  If  watched  too  narrowly,  she  saluted  with 
her  usual  scolding,  tshrr,  tshrr,  tshrr,  seeing  no 
reason,  probably,  why  she  should  be  interrupted  in 
her  indispensable  occupation. 

"  Though  the  males  were  now  comparatively  silent 
on  the  arrival  of  their  busy  mates,  I  could  not  help 
observing  this  female  and  a  second,  continually 
vociferating,  apparently  in  strife.  At  last  she  was 
observed  to  attack  this  second  female  very  fiercely, 
who  slyly  intruded  herself  at  times  into  the  same 
tree  where  she  was  building.  These  contests  were 
angry  and  often  repeated.  To  account  for  this  ani- 
mosity, I  now  recollected  that  two  fine  males  had 
been  killed  in  our  vicinity,  and  I  therefore  con- 
cluded the  intruder  to  be  left  without  a  mate;  yet 
she  had  gained  the  affections  of  the  consort  of  the 
busy  female,  and  thus  the  cause  of  their  jealous 
quarrel  became  apparent.  Having  obtained  the  con- 
fidence of  her  faithless  paramour,  the  second  female 
began  preparing  to  weave  a  nest  in  an  adjoining 
elm  by  tying  together  certain  pendent  twigs  as  a 
foundation.  The  male  now  associated  chiefly  with 
the  intruder,  whom  he  even  assisted  in  her  labor, 
yet  did  not  wholly  forget  his  first  partner,  who  called 
on  him  one  evening  in  a  low,  affectionate  tone, 
which  was  answered  in  the  same  strain.  While 
they  were  thus  engaged  in  friendly  whispers,  sud- 
denly appeared  the  rival,  and  a  violent  rencontre 
ensued,  so  that  one  of  the  females  appeared  to  be 
greatly  agitated,  and  fluttered  with  spreading  wings 
as  if  considerably  hurt.  The  male,  though  prudently 


120  WAKE-ROBIN 

neutral  in  the  contest,  showed  his  culpable  partial- 
ity by  flying  off  with  his  paramour,  and  for  the  rest 
of  the  evening  left  the  tree  to  his  pugnacious  con- 
sort. Cares  of  another  kind,  more  imperious  and 
tender,  at  length  reconciled,  or  at  least  terminated, 
these  disputes  with  the  jealous  females;  and  by  the 
aid  of  the  neighboring  bachelors,  who  are  never 
wanting  among  these  and  other  birds,  peace  was  at 
length  completely  restored  by  the  restitution  of  the 
quiet  and  happy  condition  of  monogamy." 

Let  me  not  forget  to  mention  the  nest  under  the 
mountain  ledge,  the  nest  of  the  common  pewee,  — 
a  modest  mossy  structure,  with  four  pearl-white 
eggs,  —  looking  out  upon  some  wild  scene  and  over- 
hung by  beetling  crags.  After  all  has  been  said 
about  the  elaborate,  high-hung  structures,  few  nests 
perhaps  awaken  more  pleasant  emotions  in  the  mind 
of  the  beholder  than  this  of  the  pewee,  —  the  gray, 
silent  rocks,  with  caverns  and  dens  where  the  fox 
and  the  wolf  lurk,  and  just  out  of  their  reach,  in  a 
little  niche,  as  if  it  grew  there,  the  mossy  tenement ! 

Nearly  every  high  projecting  rock  in  my  range 
has  one  of  these  nests.  Following  a  trout  stream 
up  a  wild  mountain  gorge,  not  long  since,  I  counted 
five  in  the  distance  of  a  mile,  all  within  easy  reach, 
but  safe  from  the  minks  and  the  skunks,  and  well 
housed  from  the  storms.  In  my  native  town  I 
know  a  pine  and  oak  clad  hill,  round-topped,  with 
a  bold,  precipitous  front  extending  half  way  around 
it.  Near  the  top,  and  along  this  front  or  side, 
there  crops  out  a  ledge  of  rocks  unusually  high  and 


BIRDS'-NESTS  121 

cavernous.  One  immense  layer  projects  many  feet, 
allowing  a  person  or  many  persons,  standing  upright, 
to  move  freely  beneath  it.  There  is  a  delicious 
spring  of  water  there,  and  plenty  of  wild,  cool  air. 
The  floor  is  of  loose  stone,  now  trod  by  sheep  and 
foxes,  once  by  the  Indian  and  the  wolf.  How  I 
have  delighted  from  boyhood  to  spend  a  summer 
day  in  this  retreat,  or  take  refuge  there  from  a  sud- 
den shower!  Always  the  freshness  and  coolness, 
and  always  the  delicate  mossy  nest  of  the  phoebe- 
bird !  The  bird  keeps  her  place  till  you  are  within 
a  few  feet  of  her,  when  she  flits  to  a  near  branch, 
and,  with  many  oscillations  of  her  tail,  observes  you 
anxiously.  Since  the  country  has  become  settled, 
this  pewee  has  fallen  into  the  strange  practice  of 
occasionally  placing  its  nest  under  a  bridge,  hay- 
shed,  or  other  artificial  structure,  where  it  is  sub- 
ject to  all  kinds  of  interruptions  and  annoyances. 
When  placed  thus,  the  nest  is  larger  and  coarser. 
I  know  a  hay-loft  beneath  which  a  pair  has  regu- 
larly placed  its  nest  for  several  successive  seasons. 
Arranged  along  on  a  single  pole,  which  sags  down 
a  few  inches  from  the  flooring  it  was  intended  to 
help  support,  are  three  of  these  structures,  marking 
the  number  of  years  the  birds  have  nested  there. 
The  foundation  is  of  mud  with  a  superstructure  of 
moss,  elaborately  lined  with  hair  and  feathers. 
Nothing  can  be  more  perfect  and  exquisite  than  the 
interior  of  one  of  these  nests,  yet  a  new  one  is  built 
every  season.  Three  broods,  however,  are  frequently 
reared  in  it. 


122  WAKE-ROBIN 

The  pewees,  as  a  class,  are  the  best  architects 
we  have.  The  kingbird  builds  a  nest  altogether 
admirable,  using  various  soft  cotton  and  woolen  sub- 
stances, and  sparing  neither  time  nor  material  to 
make  it  substantial  and  warm.  The  green-crested 
pewee  builds  its  nest  in  many  instances  wholly  of 
the  blossoms  of  the  white  oak.  The  wood  pewee 
builds  a  neat,  compact,  socket-shaped  nest  of  moss 
and  lichens  on  a  horizontal  branch.  There  is  never 
a  loose  end  or  shred  about  it.  The  sitting  bird  is 
largely  visible  above  the  rim.  She  moves  her  head 
freely  about  and  seems  entirely  at  her  ease,  —  a  cir- 
cumstance which  I  have  never  observed  in  any  other 
species.  The  nest  of  the  great- crested  flycatcher  is 
seldom  free  from  snake  skins,  three  or  four  being 
sometimes  woven  into  it. 

About  the  thinnest,  shallowest  nest,  for  its  situa- 
tion, that  can  be  found  is  that  of  the  turtle  dove. 
A  few  sticks  and  straws  are  carelessly  thrown  to- 
gether, hardly  sufficient  to  prevent  the  eggs  from 
falling  through  or  rolling  off.  The  nest  of  the  pas- 
senger pigeon  is  equally  hasty  and  insufficient,  and 
the  squabs  often  fall  to  the  ground  and  perish. 
The  other  extreme  among  our  common  birds  is  fur- 
nished by  the  ferruginous  thrush,  which  collects 
together  a  mass  of  material  that  would  fill  a  half- 
bushel  measure;  or  by  the  fish  hawk,  which  adds 
to  and  repairs  its  nest  year  after  year,  till  the  whole 
would  make  a  cart-load. 

One  of  the  rarest  of  nests  is  that  of  the  eagle,  be- 
cause the  eagle  is  one  of  the  rarest  of  birds.  Indeed, 


BIRDS'-NESTS  123 

so  seldom  is  the  eagle  seen  that  its  presence  always 
seems  accidental.  It  appears  as  if  merely  paus- 
ing on  the  way,  while  bound  for  some  distant 
unknown  region.  One  September,  while  a  youth, 
I  saw  the  ring-tailed  eagle,  the  young  of  the  golden 
eagle,  an  immense,  dusky  bird,  the  sight  of  which 
filled  me  with  awe.  It  lingered  about  the  hills 
for  two  days.  Some  young  cattle,  a  two-year-old 
colt,  and  half  a  dozen  sheep  were  at  pasture  on  a 
high  ridge  that  led  up  to  the  mountain,  and  in 
plain  view  of  the  house.  On  the  second  day  this 
dusky  monarch  was  seen  flying  about  above  them. 
Presently  he  began  to  hover  over  them,  after  the 
manner  of  a  hawk  watching  for  mice.  He  then 
with  extended  legs  let  himself  slowly  down  upon 
them,  actually  grappling  the  backs  of  the  young 
cattle,  and  frightening  the  creatures  so  that  they 
rushed  about  the  field  in  great  consternation;  and 
finally,  as  he  grew  bolder  and  more  frequent  in  his 
descents,  the  whole  herd  broke  over  the  fence  and 
came  tearing  down  to  the  house  "like  mad."  It 
did  not  seem  to  be  an  assault  with  intent  to  kill,  but 
was  perhaps  a  stratagem  resorted  to  in  order  to  sep- 
arate the  herd  and  expose  the  lambs,  which  hugged 
the  cattle  very  closely.  When  he  occasionally 
alighted  upon  the  oaks  that  stood  near,  the  branch 
could  be  seen  to  sway  and  bend  beneath  him. 
Finally,  as  a  rifleman  started  out  in  pursuit  of  him, 
he  launched  into  the  air,  set  his  wings,  and  sailed 
away  southward.  A  few  years  afterward,  in  Jan- 
uary, another  eagle  passed  through  the  same  local- 


124  WAKE-ROBIN 

ity,  alighting  in  a  field  near  some  dead  animal,  but 
tarried  briefly. 

So  much  by  way  of  identification.  The  golden 
eagle  is  common  to  the  northern  parts  of  both  hemi- 
spheres, and  places  its  eyrie  on  high  precipitous 
rocks.  A  pair  built  on  an  inaccessible  shelf  of  rock 
along  the  Hudson  for  eight  successive  years.  A 
squad  of  Revolutionary  soldiers,  also,  as  related  by 
Audubon,  found  a  nest  along  this  river,  and  had  an 
adventure  with  the  bird  that  came  near  costing  one 
of  their  number  his  life.  His  comrades  let  him 
down  by  a  rope  to  secure  the  eggs  or  young,  when 
he  was  attacked  by  the  female  eagle  with  such  fury 
that  he  was  obliged  to  defend  himself  with  his 
knife.  In  doing  so,  by  a  misstroke,  he  nearly  sev- 
ered the  rope  that  held  him,  and  was  drawn  up  by 
a  single  strand  from  his  perilous  position. 

The  bald  eagle,  also,  builds  on  high  rocks,  accord- 
ing to  Audubon,  though  Wilson  describes  the  nest 
of  one  which  he  saw  near  Great  Egg  Harbor,  in  the 
top  of  a  large  yellow  pine.  It  was  a  vast  pile  of 
sticks,  sods,  sedge,  grass,  reeds,  etc.,  five  or  six  feet 
high  by  four  broad,  and  with  little  or  no  concavity. 
It  had  been  used  for  many  years,  and  he  was  told 
that  the  eagles  made  it  a  sort  of  home  or  lodging- 
place  in  alt  seasons. 

The  eagle  in  all  cases  uses  one  nest,  with  more 
or  less  repair,  for  several  years.  Many  of  our  com- 
mon birds  do  the  same.  The  birds  may  be  divided, 
with  respect  to  this  and  kindred  points,  into  five 
general  classes.  First,  those  that  repair  or  appro- 


BIRDS'-NESTS  125 

priate  the  last  year's  nest,  as  the  wren,  swallow, 
bluebird,  great-crested  flycatcher,  owls,  eagles,  fish 
hawk,  and  a  few  others.  Secondly,  those  that  build 
anew  each  season,  though  frequently  rearing  more 
than  one  brood  in  the  same  nest.  Of  these  the 
phoebe-bird  is  a  well-known  example.  Thirdly, 
those  that  build  a  new  nest  for  each  brood,  which 
includes  by  far  the  greatest  number  of  species. 
Fourthly,  a  limited  number  that  make  no  nest  of 
their  own,  but  appropriate  the  abandoned  nests  of 
other  birds.  Finally,  those  who  use  no  nest  at  all, 
but  deposit  their  eggs  in  the  sand,  which  is  the  case 
with  a  large  number  of  aquatic  fowls. 

1866. 


SPRING  AT  THE  CAPITAL 

WITH    AN   EYE   TO   THE   BIRDS 

T  CAME  to  Washington  to  live  in  the  fall  of 
-  1863,  and,  with  the  exception  of  a  month  each 
summer  spent  in  the  interior  of  New  York,  have 
lived  here  ever  since. 

I  saw  my  first  novelty  in  Natural  History  the 
day  after  my  arrival.  As  I  was  walking  near  some 
woods  north  of  the  city,  a  grasshopper  of  prodigious 
size  flew  up  from  the  ground  and  alighted  in  a  tree. 
As  I  pursued  him,  he  proved  to  be  nearly  as  wild 
and  as  fleet  of  wing  as  a  bird.  I  thought  I  had 
reached  the  capital  of  grasshopperdom,  and  that  this 
was  perhaps  one  of  the  chiefs  or  leaders,  or  perhaps 
the  great  High  Cock  O'lorum  himself,  taking  an 
airing  in  the  fields.  I  have  never  yet  been  able  to 
settle  the  question,  as  every  fall  I  start  up  a  few  of 
these  gigantic  specimens,  which  perch  on  the  trees. 
They  are  about  three  inches  long,  of  a  gray  striped 
or  spotted  color,  and  have  quite  a  reptile  look. 

The  greatest  novelty  I  found,  however,  was  the 
superb  autumn  weather,  the  bright,  strong,  electric 
days,  lasting  well  into  November,  and  the  general 


128  WAKE-ROBIN 

mildness  of  the  entire  winter.  Though  the  mer- 
cury occasionally  sinks  to  zero,  yet  the  earth  is 
never  so  seared  and  blighted  by  the  cold  but  that 
in  some  sheltered  nook  or  corner  signs  of  vegetable 
life  still  remain,  which  on  a  little  encouragement 
even  asserts  itself.  I  have  found  wild  flowers  here 
every  month  in  the  year;  violets  in  December,  a 
single  houstonia  in  January  (the  little  lump  of 
earth  upon  which  it  stood  was  frozen  hard),  and  a 
tiny,  weed-like  plant,  with  a  flower  almost  micro- 
scopic in  its  smallness,  growing  along  graveled  walks 
and  in  old  plowed  fields  in  February.  The  liver- 
wort sometimes  comes  out  as  early  as  the  first  week 
in  March,  and  the  little  frogs  begin  to  pipe  doubt- 
fully about  the  same  time.  Apricot-trees  are  usually 
in  bloom  on  All-Fool's  Day  and  the  apple-trees  on 
May  Day.  By  August,  mother  hen  will  lead  forth 
her  third  brood,  and  I  had  a  March  pullet  that 
came  off  with  a  family  of  her  own  in  September. 
Our  calendar  is  made  for  this  climate.  March  is 
a  spring  month.  One  is  quite  sure  to  see  some 
marked  and  striking  change  during  the  first  eight  or 
ten  days.  This  season  (1868)  is  a  backward  one, 
and  the  memorable  change  did  not  come  till  the 
10th. 

Then  the  sun  rose  up  from  a  bed  of  vapors,  and 
seemed  fairly  to  dissolve  with  tenderness  and 
warmth.  For  an  hour  or  two  the  air  was  perfectly 
motionless,  and  full  of  low,  humming,  awakening 
sounds.  The  naked  trees  had  a  rapt,  expectant 
look.  From  some  unreclaimed  common  near  by 


SPRING  AT  THE   CAPITAL  129 

came  the  first  strain  of  the  song  sparrow ;  so  homely, 
because  so  old  and  familiar,  yet  so  inexpressibly 
pleasing.  Presently  a  full  chorus  of  voices  arose, 
tender,  musical,  half  suppressed,  but  full  of  genuine 
hilarity  and  joy.  The  bluebird  warbled,  the  robin 
called,  the  snowbird  chattered,  the  meadowlark 
uttered  her  strong  but  tender  note.  Over  a  de- 
serted field  a  turkey  buzzard  hovered  low,  and 
alighted  on  a  stake  in  the  fence,  standing  a  moment 
with  outstretched,  vibrating  wings  till  he  was  sure 
of  his  hold.  A  soft,  warm,  brooding  day.  Roads 
becoming  dry  in  many  places,  and  looking  so  good 
after  the  mud  and  the  snow.  I  walk  up  beyond 
the  boundary  and  over  Meridian  Hill.  To  move 
along  the  drying  road  and  feel  the  delicious  warmth 
is  enough.  The  cattle  low  long  and  loud,  and  look 
wistfully  into  the  distance.  I  sympathize  with 
them.  Never  a  spring  comes  but  I  have  an  almost 
irresistible  desire  to  depart.  Some  nomadic  or  mi- 
grating instinct  or  reminiscence  stirs  within  me.  I 
ache  to  be  off. 

As  I  pass  along,  the  high-hole  calls  in  the  dis- 
tance precisely  as  I  have  heard  him  in  the  North. 
After  a  pause  he  repeats  his  summons.  What  can 
be  more  welcome  to  the  ear  than  these  early  first 
sounds !  They  have  such  a  margin  of  silence ! 

One  need  but  pass  the  boundary  of  Washington 
city  to  be  fairly  in  the  country,  and  ten  minutes' 
walk  in  the  country  brings  one  to  real  primitive 
woods.  The  town  has  not  yet  overflowed  its  limits 
like  the  great  Northern  commercial  capitals,  and 


130  WAKE-ROBIN 

Nature,  wild  and  unkempt,  comes  up  to  its  very 
threshold,  and  even  in  many  places  crosses  it. 

The  woods,  which  I  soon  reach,  are  stark  and 
still.  The  signs  of  returning  life  are  so  faint  as  to 
be  almost  imperceptible,  but  there  is  a  fresh,  earthy 
smell  in  the  air,  as  if  something  had  stirred  here 
under  the  leaves.  The  crows  caw  above  the  wood, 
or  walk  about  the  brown  fields.  I  look  at  the  gray, 
silent  trees  long  and  long,  but  they  show  no  sign. 
The  catkins  of  some  alders  by  a  little  pool  have  just 
swelled  perceptibly;  and,  brushing  away  the  dry 
leaves  and  debris  on  a  sunny  slope,  I  discover  the 
liverwort  just  pushing  up  a  fuzzy,  tender  sprout. 
But  the  waters  have  brought  forth.  The  little  frogs 
are  musical.  From  every  marsh  and  pool  goes  up 
their  shrill  but  pleasing  chorus.  Peering  into  one 
of  their  haunts,  a  little  body  of  semi-stagnant  water, 
I  discover  masses  of  frogs'  spawn  covering  the  bot- 
tom. I  take  up  great  chunks  of  the  cold,  quiver- 
ing jelly  in  my  hands.  In  some  places  there  are 
gallons  of  it.  A  youth  who  accompanies  me  won- 
ders if  it  would  not  be  good  cooked,  or  if  it  could 
not  be  used  as  a  substitute  for  eggs.  It  is  a  perfect 
jelly,  of  a  slightly  milky  tinge,  thickly  imbedded 
with  black  spots  about  the  size  of  a  small  bird's 
eye.  When  just  deposited  it  is  perfectly  transparent. 
These  hatch  in  eight  or  ten  days,  gradually  absorb 
their  gelatinous  surroundings,  and  the  tiny  tadpoles 
issue  forth. 

In  the  city,  even  before  the  shop-windows  have 
caught  the  inspiration,  spring  is  heralded  by  the 


SPRING   AT  THE   CAPITAL  131 

silver  poplars  which  line  all  the  streets  and  ave- 
nues. After  a  few  mild,  sunshiny  March  days,  you 
suddenly  perceive  a  change  has  come  over  the  trees. 
Their  tops  have  a  less  naked  look.  If  the  weather 
continues  warm,  a  single  day  will  work  wonders. 
Presently  the  tree  will  be  one  vast  plume  of  gray, 
downy  tassels,  while  not  the  least  speck  of  green 
foliage  is  visible.  The  first  week  in  April  these 
long  mimic  caterpillars  lie  all  about  the  streets  and 
fill  the  gutters. 

The  approach  of  spring  is  also  indicated  by  the 
crows  and  buzzards,  which  rapidly  multiply  in  the 
environs  of  the  city,  and  grow  bold  and  demonstra- 
tive. The  crows  are  abundant  here  all  winter,  but 
are  not  very  noticeable  except  as  they  pass  high  in 
air  to  and  from  their  winter  quarters  in  the  Virginia 
woods.  Early  in  the  morning,  as  soon  as  it  is  light 
enough  to  discern  them,  there  they  are,  streaming 
eastward  across  the  sky,  now  in  loose,  scattered 
flocks,  now  in  thick,  dense  masses,  then  singly  and 
in  pairs  or  triplets,  but  all  setting  in  one  direction, 
probably  to  the  waters  of  Eastern  Maryland.  To- 
ward night  they  begin  to  return,  flying  in  the  same 
manner,  and  directing  their  course  to  the  wooded 
heights  on  the  Potomac,  west  of  the  city.  In 
spring  these  diurnal  mass  movements  cease;  the 
clan  breaks  up,  the  rookery  is  abandoned,  and  the 
birds  scatter  broadcast  over  the  land.  This  seems 
to  be  the  course  everywhere  pursued.  One  would 
think  that,  when  food  was  scarcest,  the  policy  of 
separating  into  small  bands  or  pairs,  and  dispersing 


132  WAKE-ROBIN 

over  a  wide  country,  would  prevail,  as  a  few  might 
subsist  where  a  larger  number  would  starve.  The 
truth  is,  however,  that,  in  winter,  food  can  be  had 
only  in  certain  clearly  defined  districts  and  tracts, 
as  along  rivers  and  the  shores  of  bays  and  lakes. 

A  few  miles  north  of  Newburgh,  on  the  Hudson, 
the  crows  go  into  winter  quarters  in  the  same  man- 
ner, flying  south  in  the  morning  and  returning  again 
at  night,  sometimes  hugging  the  hills  so  close  dur- 
ing a  strong  wind  as  to  expose  themselves  to  the 
clubs  and  stones  of  schoolboys  ambushed  behind 
trees  and  fences.  The  belated  ones,  that  come  la- 
boring along  just  at  dusk,  are  often  so  overcome  by 
the  long  journey  and  the  strong  current  that  they 
seem  almost  on  the  point  of  sinking  down  whenever 
the  wind  or  a  rise  in  the  ground  calls  upon  them 
for  an  extra  effort. 

The  turkey  buzzards  are  noticeable  about  Wash- 
ington as  soon  as  the  season  begins  to  open,  sailing 
leisurely  along  two  or  three  hundred  feet  overhead, 
or  sweeping  low  over  some  common  or  open  space 
where,  perchance,  a  dead  puppy  or  pig  or  fowl  has 
been  thrown.  Half  a  dozen  will  sometimes  alight 
about  some  such  object  out  on  the  commons,  and, 
with  their  broad  dusky  wings  lifted  up  to  their  full 
extent,  threaten  and  chase  each  other,  while  perhaps 
one  or  two  are  feeding.  Their  wings  are  very  large 
and  flexible,  and  the  slightest  motion  of  them,  while 
the  bird  stands  upon  the  ground,  suffices  to  lift  its 
feet  clear.  Their  movements  when  in  air  are  very 
majestic  and  beautiful  to  the  eye,  being  in  every 


SPRING  AT  THE  CAPITAL  133 

respect  indentical  with  those  of  our  common  hen  or 
red-tailed  hawk.  They  sail  along  in  the  same  calm, 
effortless,  interminable  manner,  and  sweep  around 
in  the  same  ample  spirals.  The  shape  of  their 
wings  and  tail,  indeed  their  entire  effect  against  the 
sky,  except  in  size  and  color,  is  very  nearly  the 
same  as  that  of  the  hawk  mentioned.  A  dozen  at 
a  time  may  often  be  seen  high  in  air,  amusing  them- 
selves by  sailing  serenely  round  and  round  in  the 
same  circle. 

They  are  less  active  and  vigilant  than  the  hawk ; 
never  poise  themselves  on  the  wing,  never  dive  and 
gambol  in  the  air,  and  never  swoop  down  upon  their 
prey;  unlike  the  hawks  also,  they  appear  to  have  no 
enemies.  The  crow  fights  the  hawk,  and  the  king- 
bird and  crow  blackbird  fight  the  crow;  but  neither 
takes  any  notice  of  the  buzzard.  He  excites  the 
enmity  of  none,  for  the  reason  that  he  molests  none. 
The  crow  has  an  old  grudge  against  the  hawk,  be- 
cause the  hawk  robs  the  crow's  nest  and  carries  off 
his  young;  the  kingbird's  quarrel  with  the  crow  is 
upon  the  same  grounds.  But  the  buzzard  never 
attacks  live  game,  or  feeds  upon  new  flesh  when  old 
can  be  had. 

In  May,  like  the  crows,  they  nearly  all  disappear 
very  suddenly,  probably  to  their  breeding-haunts 
near  the  seashore.  Do  the  males  separate  from  the 
females  at  this  time,  and  go  by  themselves?  At 
any  rate,  in  July  I  discovered  that  a  large  number 
of  buzzards  roosted  in  some  woods  near  Bock  Creek, 
about  a  mile  from  the  city  limits;  and,  as  they  do 


134  WAKE-EOBIN 

not  nest  anywhere  in  this  vicinity,  I  thought  they 
might  be  males.  I  happened  to  he  detained  late  in 
the  woods,  watching  the  nest  of  a  flying  squirrel, 
when  the  buzzards,  just  after  sundown,  began  to 
come  by  ones  and  twos  and  alight  in  the  trees  near 
me.  Presently  they  came  in  greater  numbers,  but 
from  the  same  direction,  flapping  low  over  the 
woods,  and  taking  up  their  position  in  the  middle 
branches.  On  alighting,  each  one  would  blow  very 
audibly  through  his  nose,  just  as  a  cow  does  when 
she  lies  down;  this  is  the  only  sound  I  have  ever 
heard  the  buzzard  make.  They  would  then  stretch 
themselves,  after  the  manner  of  turkeys,  and  walk 
along  the  limbs.  Sometimes  a  decayed  branch 
would  break  under  the  weight  of  two  or  three, 
when,  with  a  great  flapping,  they  would  take  up 
new  positions.  They  continued  to  come  till  it  was 
quite  dark,  and  all  the  trees  about  me  were  full.  I 
began  to  feel  a  little  nervous,  but  kept  my  place. 
After  it  was  entirely  dark  and  all  was  still,  I  gath- 
ered a  large  pile  of  dry  leaves  and  kindled  it  with  a 
match,  to  see  what  they  would  think  of  a  fire.  Not 
a  sound  was  heard  till  the  pile  of  leaves  was  in  full 
blaze,  when  instantaneously  every  buzzard  started. 
I  thought  the  treetops  were  coming  down  upon  me, 
so  great  was  the  uproar.  But  the  woods  were  soon 
cleared,  and  the  loathsome  pack  disappeared  in  the 
night. 

About  the  first  of  June  I  saw  numbers  of  buz- 
zards sailing  around  over  the  great  Falls  of  the 
Potomac. 


SPRING  AT   THE  CAPITAL  135 

A  glimpse  of  the  birds  usually  found  here  in  the 
latter  part  of  winter  may  be  had  in  the  following 
extract,  which  I  take  from  my  diary  under  date  of 
February  4th:  — 

"  Made  a  long  excursion  through  the  woods  and 
over  the  hills.  Went  directly  north  from  the  Capi- 
tol for  about  three  miles.  The  ground  bare  and 
the  day  cold  and  sharp.  In  the  suburbs,  among 
the  scattered  Irish  and  negro  shanties,  came  sud- 
denly upon  a  flock  of  birds,  feeding  about  like  our 
northern  snow  buntings.  Every  now  and  then  they 
uttered  a  piping,  disconsolate  note,  as  if  they  had  a 
very  sorry  time  of  it.  They  proved  to  be  shore 
larks,  the  first  I  had  ever  seen.  They  had  the 
walk  characteristic  of  all  larks;  were  a  little  larger 
than  the  sparrow;  had  a  black  spot  on  the  breast, 
with  much  white  on  the  under  parts  of  their  bodies. 
As  I  approached  them  the  nearer  ones  paused,  and, 
half  squatting,  eyed  me  suspiciously.  Presently, 
at  a  movement  of  my  arm,  away  they  went,  flying 
exactly  like  the  snow  bunting,  and  showing  nearly 
as  much  white."  (I  have  since  discovered  that  the 
shore  lark  is  a  regular  visitant  here  in  February  and 
March,  when  large  quantities  of  them  are  shot  or 
trapped,  and  exposed  for  sale  in  the  market.  Dur- 
ing a  heavy  snow  I  have  seen  numbers  of  them 
feeding  upon  the  seeds  of  various  weedy  growths  in 
a  large  market-garden  well  into  town.)  "Pressing 
on,  the  walk  became  exhilarating.  Followed  a  little 
brook,  the  eastern  branch  of  the  Tiber,  lined  with 
bushes  and  a  rank  growth  of  green-brier.  Sparrows 


136  WAKE-ROBIN 

started  out  here  and  there,  and  flew  across  the  little 
bends  and  points.  Among  some  pines  just  beyond 
the  boundary,  saw  a  number  of  American  gold- 
finches, in  their  gray  winter  dress,  pecking  the  pine- 
cones.  A  golden-crowned  kinglet  was  there  also,  a 
little  tuft  of  gray  feathers,  hopping  about  as  restless 
as  a  spirit.  Had  the  old  pine-trees  food  delicate 
enough  for  him  also?  Farther  on,  in  some  low 
open  woods,  saw  many  sparrows,  —  the  fox,  white- 
throated,  white-crowned,  the  Canada,  the  song,  the 
swamp,  —  all  herding  together  along  the  warm  and 
sheltered  borders.  To  my  surprise,  saw  a  chewink 
also,  and  the  yellow-rumped  warbler.  The  purple 
finch  was  there  likewise,  and  the  Carolina  wren  and 
brown  creeper.  In  the  higher,  colder  woods  not  a 
bird  was  to  be  seen.  Returning,  near  sunset,  across 
the  eastern  slope  of  a  hill  which  overlooked  the 
city,  was  delighted  to  see  a  number  of  grass  finches 
or  vesper  sparrows,  —  birds  which  will  be  forever 
associated  in  my  mind  with  my  father's  sheep  pas- 
tures. They  ran  before  me,  now  flitting  a  pace  or 
two,  now  skulking  in  the  low  stubble,  just  as  I  had 
observed  them  when  a  boy." 

A  month  later,  March  4th,  is  this  note :  — 
"After  the  second  memorable  inauguration  of 
President  Lincoln,  took  my  first  trip  of  the  season. 
The  afternoon  was  very  clear  and  warm,  —  real  ver- 
nal sunshine  at  last,  though  the  wind  roared  like  a 
lion  over  the  woods.  It  seemed  novel  enough  to 
find  within  two  miles  of  the  White  House  a  simple 
woodsman  chopping  away  as  if  no  President  was 


SPRING  AT   THE  CAPITAL  137 

being  inaugurated!  Some  puppies,  snugly  nestled 
in  the  cavity  of  an  old  hollow  tree,  he  said,  be- 
longed to  a  wild  dog.  I  imagine  I  saw  the  '  wild 
dog, '  on  the  other  side  of  Rock  Creek,  in  a  great 
state  of  grief  and  trepidation,  running  up  and  down, 
crying  and  yelping,  and  looking  wistfully  over  the 
fiwollen  flood,  which  the  poor  thing  had  not  the 
oourage  to  brave.  This  day,  for  the  first  time,  I 
heard  the  song  of  the  Canada  sparrow,  a  soft,  sweet 
note,  almost  running  into  a  warble.  Saw  a  small, 
black,  velvety  butterfly  with  a  yellow  border  to  its 
wings.  Under  a  warm  bank  found  two  flowers  of 
the  houstonia  in  bloom.  Saw  frogs'  spawn  near 
Piny  Branch,  and  heard  the  hyla." 

Among  the  first  birds  that  make  their  appear- 
ance in  Washington  is  the  crow  blackbird.  He  may 
come  any  time  after  the  1st  of  March.  The  birds 
congregate  in  large  flocks,  and  frequent  groves  and 
parks,  alternately  swarming  in  the  treetops  and  fill- 
ing the  air  with  their  sharp  jangle,  and  alighting 
on  the  ground  in  quest  of  food,  their  polished  coats 
glistening  in  the  sun  from  very  blackness  as  they 
walk  about.  There  is  evidently  some  music  in  the 
soul  of  this  bird  at  this  season,  though  he  makes 
a  sad  failure  in  getting  it  out.  His  voice  always 
sounds  as  if  he  were  laboring  under  a  severe  attack 
of  influenza,  though  a  large  flock  of  them,  heard  at 
a  distance  on  a  bright  afternoon  of  early  spring, 
produce  an  effect  not  unpleasing.  The  air  is  filled 
with  crackling,  splintering,  spurting,  semi-musical 
Bounds,  which  are  like  pepper  and  salt  to  the  ear. 


138  WAKE-ROBIN 

All  parks  and  public  grounds  about  tbe  city  are 
full  of  blackbirds.  They  are  especially  plentiful  in 
the  trees  about  the  White  House,  breeding  there 
and  waging  war  on  all  other  birds.  The  occupants 
of  one  of  the  offices  in  the  west  wing  of  the  Treasury 
one  day  had  their  attention  attracted  by  some  object 
striking  violently  against  one  of  the  window-panes. 
Looking  up,  they  beheld  a  crow  blackbird  pausing 
in  midair,  a  few  feet  from  the  window.  On  the 
broad  stone  window-sill  lay  the  quivering  form  of  a 
purple  finch.  The  little  tragedy  was  easily  read. 
The  blackbird  had  pursued  the  finch  with  such 
murderous  violence  that  the  latter,  in  its  desperate 
efforts  to  escape,  had  sought  refuge  in  the  Treasury. 
The  force  of  the  concussion  against  the  heavy  plate, 
glass  of  the  window  had  killed  the  poor  thing  in- 
stantly. The  pursuer,  no  doubt  astonished  at  the 
sudden  and  novel  termination  of  the  career  of  its 
victim,  hovered  a  moment,  as  if  to  be  sure  of  what 
had  happened,  and  made  off. 

(It  is  not  unusual  for  birds,  when  thus  threatened 
with  destruction  by  their  natural  enemy,  to  become 
so  terrified  as  to  seek  safety  in  the  presence  of  man. 
I  was  once  startled,  while  living  in  a  country  vil- 
lage, to  behold,  on  entering  my  room  at  noon,  one 
October  day,  a  quail  sitting  upon  my  bed.  The 
affrighted  and  bewildered  bird  instantly  started  for 
the  open  window,  into  which  it  had  no  doubt  been 
driven  by  a  hawk.) 

The  crow  blackbird  has  all  the  natural  cunning 
of  his  prototype,  the  crow.  In  one  of  the  inner 


SPRING  AT   THE   CAPITAL  139 

courts  of  the  Treasury  building  there  is  a  fountain 
with  several  trees  growing  near.  By  midsummer 
the  blackbirds  become  so  bold  as  to  venture  within 
this  court.  Various  fragments  of  food,  tossed  from 
•the  surrounding  windows,  reward  their  temerity. 
When  a  crust  of  dry  bread  defies  their  beaks,  they 
have  been  seen  to  drop  it  into  the  water,  and,  when 
it  had  become  soaked  sufficiently,  to  take  it  out 
again. 

They  build  a  nest  of  coarse  sticks  and  mud,  the 
whole  burden  of  the  enterprise  seeming  to  devolve 
upon  the  female.  For  several  successive  mornings, 
just  after  sunrise,  I  used  to  notice  a  pair  of  them 
flying  to  and  fro  in  the  air  above  me  as  I  hoed  in 
the  garden,  directing  their  course,  on  the  one  hand, 
to  a  marshy  piece  of  ground  about  half  a  mile  dis- 
tant, and  disappearing,  on  their  return,  among  the 
trees  about  the  Capitol.  Eeturning,  the  female 
always  had  her  beak  loaded  with  building  material, 
while  the  male,  carrying  nothing,  seemed  to  act  as 
her  escort,  flying  a  little  above  and  in  advance  of 
her,  and  uttering  now  and  then  his  husky,  discor- 
dant note.  As  I  tossed  a  lump  of  earth  up  at  them, 
the  frightened  mother  bird  dropped  her  mortar, .  and 
the  pair  skurried  away,  much  put  out.  Later  they 
avenged  themselves  by  pilfering  my  cherries. 

The  most  mischievous  enemies  of  the  cherries, 
however,  here  as  at  the  North,  are  the  cedar  wax- 
wings,  or  "cherry-birds."  How  quickly  they  spy 
out  the  tree!  Long  before  the  cherry  begins  to 
turn,  they  are  around,  alert  and  cautious.  In  small 


140  WAKE-ROBIN 

flocks  they  circle  about,  high  in  air,  uttering  their 
fine  note,  or  plunge  quickly  into  the  tops  of  remote 
trees.  Day  by  day  they  approach  nearer  and  nearer, 
reconnoitring  the  premises,  and  watching  the  grow- 
ing fruit.  Hardly  have  the  green  lobes  turned  a 
red  cheek  to  the  sun  before  their  beaks  have  scarred 
it.  At  first  they  approach  the  tree  stealthily,  on 
the  side  turned  from  the  house,  diving  quickly  into 
the  branches  in  ones  and  twos,  while  the  main  flock 
is  ambushed  in  some  shade-tree  not  far  off.  They 
are  most  apt  to  commit  their  depredations  very  early 
in  the  morning  and  on  cloudy,  rainy  days.  As  the 
cherries  grow  sweeter  the  birds  grow  bolder,  till, 
from  throwing  tufts  of  grass,  one  has  to  throw 
stones  in  good  earnest,  or  lose  all  his  fruit.  In 
June  they  disappear,  following  the  cherries  to  the 
north,  where  by  July  they  are  nesting  in  the  or- 
chards and  cedar  groves. 

Among  the  permanent  summer  residents  here 
(one  might  say  city  residents,  as  they  seem  more 
abundant  in  town  than  out),  the  yellow  warbler  or 
summer  yellowbird  is  conspicuous.  He  comes  about 
the  middle  of  April,  and  seems  particularly  attached 
to  the  silver  poplars.  In  every  street,  and  all  day 
long,  one  may  hear  his  thin,  sharp  warble.  When 
nesting,  the  female  comes  about  the  yard,  pecking 
at  the  clothes-line,  and  gathering  up  bits  of  thread 
to  weave  into  her  nest. 

Swallows  appear  in  Washington  from  the  first  to 
the  middle  of  April.  They  come  twittering  along 
in  the  way  so  familiar  to  every  New  England  boy. 


SPRING   AT  THE   CAPITAL  141 

The  barn  swallow  is  heard  first,  followed  in  a  day 
or  two  by  the  squeaking  of  the  cliff  swallow.  The 
chimney  swallows,  or  swifts,  are  not  far  behind,  and 
remain  here,  in  large  numbers,  the  whole  season. 
The  purple  martins  appear  in  April,  as  they  pass 
north,  and  again  in  July  and  August  on  their  re- 
turn, accompanied  by  their  young. 

The  national  capital  is  situated  in  such  a  vast 
spread  of  wild,  wooded,  or  semi- cultivated  country, 
and  is  in  itself  so  open  and  spacious,  with  its  parks 
and  large  government  reservations,  that  an  unusual 
number  of  birds  find  their  way  into  it  in  the  course 
of  the  season.  Rare  warblers,  as  the  black- poll, 
the  yellow  red-poll,  and  the  bay-breasted,  pausing 
in  May  on  their  northward  journey,  pursue  their 
insect  game  in  the  very  heart  of  the  town. 

I  have  heard  the  veery  thrush  in  the  trees  near 
the  White  House;  and  one  rainy  April  morning, 
about  six  o'clock,  he  came  and  blew  his  soft,  mel- 
low flute  in  a  pear-tree  in  my  garden.  The  tones 
had  all  the  sweetness  and  wildness  they  have  when 
heard  in  June  in  our  deep  northern  forests.  A 
day  or  two  afterward,  in  the  same  tree,  I  heard  for 
the  first  time  the  song  of  the  ruby-crowned  wren, 
or  kinglet,  —  the  same  liquid  bubble  and  cadence 
which  characterize  the  wren-songs  generally,  but 
much  finer  and  more  delicate  than  the  song  of  any 
other  variety  known  to  me;  beginning  in  a  fine, 
round,  needle-like  note,  and  rising  into  a  full,  sus- 
tained warble,  —  a  strain,  on  the  whole,  remarkably 
exquisite  and  pleasing,  the  singer  being  all  the 


142  WAKE-ROBIN 

while  as  busy  as  a  bee,  catching  some  kind  of  in- 
sects. It  is  certainly  one  of  our  most  beautiful  bird- 
songs,  and  Audubon's  enthusiasm  concerning  its 
song,  as  he  heard  it  in  the  wilds  of  Labrador,  is 
not  a  bit  extravagant.  The  song  of  the  kinglet 
is  the  only  characteristic  that  allies  it  to  the  wrens. 

The  Capitol  grounds,  with  their  fine  large  trees 
of  many  varieties,  draw  many  kinds  of  birds.  In 
the  rear  of  the  building  the  extensive  grounds  are 
peculiarly  attractive,  being  a  gentle  slope,  warm  and 
protected,  and  quite  thickly  wooded.  Here  in  early 
spring  I  go  to  hear  the  robins,  catbirds,  blackbirds, 
wrens,  etc.  In  March  the  white-throated  and  white- 
crowned  sparrows  may  be  seen,  hopping  about  on 
the  flower-beds  or  peering  slyly  from  the  evergreens. 
The  robin  hops  about  freely  upon  the  grass,  not- 
withstanding the  keeper's  large-lettered  warning, 
and  at  intervals,  and  especially  at  sunset,  carols  from 
the  treetops  his  loud,  hearty  strain. 

The  kingbird  and  orchard  starling  remain  the 
whole  season,  and  breed  in  the  treetops.  The  rich, 
copious  song  of  the  starling  may  be  heard  there  all 
the  forenoon.  The  song  of  some  birds  is  like  scar- 
let, —  strong,  intense,  emphatic.  This  is  the  char- 
acter of  the  orchard  starlings,  also  of  the  tanagers 
and  the  various  grosbeaks.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
songs  of  other  birds,  as  of  certain  of  the  thrushes, 
suggest  the  serene  blue  of  the  upper  sky. 

In  February  one  may  hear,  in  the  Smithsonian 
grounds,  the  song  of  the  fox  sparrow.  It  is  a 
strong,  richly  modulated  whistle,  —  the  finest  spar- 
row note  I  have  ever  heard. 


SPRING  AT  THE   CAPITAL  143 

A  curious  and  charming  sound  may  be  heard  here 
in  May.  You  are  walking  forth  in  the  soft  morn- 
ing air,  when  suddenly  there  conies  a  burst  of  bobo- 
link melody  from  some  mysterious  source.  A  score 
of  throats  pour  out  one  brief,  hilarious,  tuneful 
jubilee  and  are  suddenly  silent.  There  is  a  strange 
remoteness  and  fascination  about  it.  Presently  you 
discover  its  source  skyward,  and  a  quick  eye  will 
detect  the  gay  band  pushing  northward.  They 
seem  to  scent  the  fragrant  meadows  afar  off,  and 
shout  forth  snatches  of  their  songs  in  anticipation. 

The  bobolink  does  not  breed  in  the  District,  but 
usually  pauses  in  his  journey  and  feeds  during  the 
day  in  the  grass-lands  north  of  the  city.  When  the 
season  is  backward,  they  tarry  a  week  or  ten  days, 
singing  freely  and  appearing  quite  at  home.  In 
large  flocks  they  search  over  every  inch  of  ground, 
and  at  intervals  hover  on  the  wing  or  alight  in  the 
treetops,  all  pouring  forth  their  gladness  at  once, 
and  filling  the  air  with  a  multitudinous  musical 
clamor. 

They  continue  to  pass,  traveling  by  night  and 
feeding  by  day,  till  after  the  middle  of  May,  when 
they  cease.  In  September,  with  numbers  greatly 
increased,  they  are  on  their  way  back.  I  am  first 
advised  of  their  return  by  hearing  their  calls  at 
night  as  they  fly  over  the  city.  On  certain  nights 
the  sound  becomes  quite  noticeable.  I  have  awak- 
ened in  the  middle  of  the  night,  and,  through  the 
open  window,  as  J  lay  in  bed,  heard  their  faint 
notes.  The  warblers  begin  to  return  about  the 


144  WAKE-ROBIN 

same  time,  and  are  clearly  distinguished  by  their 
timid  yeaps.  On  dark,  cloudy  nights  the  birds 
seem  confused  by  the  lights  of  the  city,  and  appar- 
ently wander  about  above  it. 

In  the  spring  the  same  curious  incident  is  re- 
peated, though  but  few  voices  can  be  identified.  I 
make  out  the  snowbird,  the  bobolink,  the  war- 
blers, and  on  two  nights  during  the  early  part  of 
May  I  heard  very  clearly  the  call  of  the  sandpipers. 

Instead  of  the  bobolink,  one  encounters  here,  in 
the  June  meadows,  the  black- throated  bunting,  a 
bird  closely  related  to  the  sparrows  and  a  very 
persistent  if  not  a  very  musical  songster.  He 
perches  upon  the  fences  and  upon  the  trees  by  the 
roadside,  and,  spreading  his  tail,  gives  forth  his 
harsh  strain,  which  may  be  roughly  worded  thus: 
fscp  fscp,  fee  fee  fee.  Like  all  sounds  associated 
with  early  summer,  it  soon  has  a  charm  to  the  ear 
quite  independent  of  its  intrinsic  merits. 

Outside  of  the  city  limits,  the  great  point  of 
interest  to  the  rambler  and  lover  of  nature  is  the 
Eock  Creek  region.  Rock  Creek  is  a  large,  rough, 
rapid  stream,  which  has  its  source  in  the  interior 
of  Maryland,  and  flows  into  the  Potomac  between 
Washington  and  Georgetown.  Its  course,  for  five 
or  six  miles  out  of  Washington,  is  marked  by  great 
diversity  of  scenery.  Flowing  in  a  deep  valley, 
which  now  and  then  becomes  a  wild  gorge  with 
overhanging  rocks  and  high  precipitous  headlands, 
for  the  most  part  wooded;  here  reposing  in  long, 
dark  reaches,  there  sweeping  and  hurrying  around 


SPEING  AT  THE  CAPITAL  145 

a  sudden  bend  or  over  a  rocky  bed;  receiving  at 
short  intervals  small  runs  and  spring  rivulets,  which 
open  up  vistas  and  outlooks  to  the  right  and  left,  of 
the  most  charming  description,  —  Rock  Creek  has 
an  abundance  of  all  the  elements  that  make  up  not 
only  pleasing  but  wild  and  rugged  scenery.  There 
is,  perhaps,  not  another  city  in  the  Union  that  has 
on  its  very  threshold  so  much  natural  beauty  and 
grandeur,  such  as  men  seek  for  in  remote  forests  and 
mountains.  A  few  touches  of  art  would  convert 
this  whole  region,  extending  from  Georgetown  to 
what  is  known  as  Crystal  Springs,  not  more  than 
two  miles  from  the  present  State  Department,  into 
a  park  unequaled  by  anything  in  the  world.  There 
are  passages  between  these  two  points  as  wild  and 
savage,  and  apparently  as  remote  from  civilization, 
as  anything  one  meets  with  in  the  mountain  sources 
of  the  Hudson  or  the  Delaware. 

One  of  the  tributaries  to  Rock  Creek  within  this 
limit  is  called  Piny  Branch.  It  is  a  small,  noisy 
brook,  flowing  through  a  valley  of  great  natural 
beauty  and  picturesqueness,  shaded  nearly  all  the 
way  by  woods  of  oak,  chestnut,  and  beech,  and 
abounding  in  dark  recesses  and  hidden  retreats. 

I  must  not  forget  to  mention  the  many  springs 
with  which  this  whole  region  is  supplied,  each  the 
centre  of  some  wild  nook,  perhaps  the  head  of  a 
little  valley  one  or  two  hundred  yards  long,  through 
which  one  catches  a  glimpse,  or  hears  the  voice,  of 
the  main  creek  rushing  along  below. 

My  walks  tend  in  this  direction  more  frequently 


146  WAKE  -ROBIN 

than  in  any  other.  Here  the  boys  go,  too,  troops 
of  them,  of  a  Sunday,  to  bathe  and  prowl  around, 
and  indulge  the  semi-barbarous  instincts  that  still 
lurk  within  them.  Life,  in  all  its  forms,  is  most 
abundant  near  water.  The  rank  vegetation  nurtures 
the  insects,  and  the  insects  draw  the  birds.  The 
first  week  in  March,  on  some  southern  slope  where 
the  sunshine  lies  warm  and  long,  I  usually  find  the 
hepatica  in  bloom,  though  with  scarcely  an  inch  of 
stalk.  In  the  spring  runs,  the  skunk  cabbage  pushes 
its  pike  up  through  the  mould,  the  flower  appearing 
first,  as  if  Nature  had  made  a  mistake. 

It  is  not  till  about  the  1st  of  April  that  many 
wild  flowers  may  be  looked  for.  By  this  time  the 
hepatica,  anemone,  saxifrage,  arbutus,  houstonia, 
and  bloodroot  may  be  counted  on.  A  week  later, 
the  claytonia  or  spring  beauty,  water-cress,  violets, 
a  low  buttercup,  vetch,  corydalis,  and  potentilla 
appear.  These  comprise  most  of  the  April  flowers, 
and  may  be  found  in  great  profusion  in  the  Kock 
Creek  and  Piny  Branch  region. 

In  each  little  valley  or  spring  run,  some  one  spe- 
cies predominates.  I  know  invariably  where  to  look 
for  the  first  liverwort,  and  where  the  largest  and 
finest  may  be  found.  On  a  dry,  gravelly,  half- 
wooded  hill-slope  the  bird's-foot  violet  grows  in 
great  abundance,  and  is  sparse  in  neighboring  dis- 
tricts. This  flower,  which  I  never  saw  in  the 
North,  is  the  most  beautiful  and  showy  of  all  the 
violets,  and  calls  forth  rapturous  applause  from  all 
persons  who  visit  the  woods.  It  grows  in  little 


SPRING  AT  THE  CAPITAL  147 

groups  and  clusters,  and  bears  a  close  resemblance 
to  the  pansies  of  the  gardens.  Its  two  purple, 
velvety  petals  seem  to  fall  over  tiny  shoulders  like 
a  rich  cape. 

On  the  same  slope,  and  on  no  other,  I  go  about 
the  1st  of  May  for  lupine,  or  sun-dial,  which  makes 
the  ground  look  blue  from  a  little  distance;  on  the 
other  or  northern  side  of  the  slope,  the  arbutus, 
during  the  first  half  of  April,  perfumes  the  wild- 
wood  air.  A  few  paces  farther  on,  in  the  bottom 
of  a  little  spring  run,  the  mandrake  shades  the 
ground  with  its  miniature  umbrellas.  It  begins  to 
push  its  green  finger-points  up  through  the  ground 
by  the  1st  of  April,  but  is  not  in  bloom  till  the  1st 
of  May.  It  has  a  single  white,  wax-like  flower, 
with  a  sweet,  sickish  odor,  growing  immediately 
beneath  its  broad  leafy  top.  By  the  same  run  grow 
water-cresses  and  two  kinds  of  anemones,  —  the 
Pennsylvania  and  the  grove  anemone.  The  blood- 
root  is  very  common  at  the  foot  of  almost  every 
warm  slope  in  the  Rock  Creek  woods,  and,  where 
the  wind  has  tucked  it  up  well  with  the  coverlid  of 
dry  leaves,  makes  its  appearance  almost  as  soon  as 
the  liverwort.  It  is  singular  how  little  warmth  is 
necessary  to  encourage  these  earlier  flowers  to  put 
forth.  It  would  seem  as  if  some  influence  must 
come  on  in  advance  underground  and  get  things 
ready,  so  that,  when  the  outside  temperature  is  pro- 
pitious, they  at  once  venture  out.  I  have  found 
the  bloodroot  when  it  was  still  freezing  two  or  three 
nights  in  the  week,  and  have  known  at  least  three 


148  WAKE-ROBIN 

varieties  of  early  flowers  to  be  buried  in  eight 
inches  of  snow. 

Another  abundant  flower  in  the  Kock  Creek  re- 
gion is  the  spring  beauty.  Like  most  others,  it 
grows  in  streaks.  A  few  paces  from  where  your 
attention  is  monopolized  by  violets  or  arbutus,  it  is 
arrested  by  the  claytonia,  growing  in  such  profusion 
that  it  is  impossible  to  set  the  foot  down  without 
crushing  the  flowers.  Only  the  forenoon  walker 
sees  them  in  all  their  beauty,  as  later  in  the  day 
their  eyes  are  closed,  and  their  pretty  heads  drooped 
in  slumber.  In  only  one  locality  do  I  find  the 
lady's-slipper,  —  a  yellow  variety.  The  flowers 
that  overleap  all  bounds  in  this  section  are  the  hous- 
tonias.  By  the  1st  of  April  they  are  very  notice- 
able in  warm,  damp  places  along  the  borders  of  the 
woods  and  in  half -cleared  fields,  but  by  May  these 
localities  are  clouded  with  them.  They  become 
visible  from  the  highway  across  wide  fields,  and 
look  like  little  puffs  of  smoke  clinging  close  to  the 
ground. 

On  the  1st  of  May  I  go  to  the  Eock  Creek  or 
Piny  Branch  region  to  hear  the  wood  thrush.  I 
always  find  him  by  this  date  leisurely  chanting  his 
lofty  strain;  other  thrushes  are  seen  now  also,  or 
even  earlier,  as  Wilson's,  the  olive-backed,  the 
hermit,  —  the  two  latter  silent,  but  the  former 
musical. 

Occasionally  in  the  earlier  part  of  May  I  find  the 
woods  literally  swarming  with  warblers,  exploring 
every  branch  and  leaf,  from  the  tallest  tulip  to  the 


SPRING  AT  THE  CAPITAL  149 

lowest  spice-bush,  so  urgent  is  the  demand  for  food 
during  their  long  northern  journeys.  At  night 
they  are  up  and  away.  Some  varieties,  as  the  blue 
yellow-back,  the  chestnut-sided,  and  the  Blackbur- 
nian,  during  their  brief  stay,  sing  nearly  as  freely 
as  in  their  breeding-haunts.  For  two  or  three 
years  I  have  chanced  to  meet  little  companies  of 
the  bay-breasted  warbler,  searching  for  food  in  an 
oak  wood  on  an  elevated  piece  of  ground.  They 
kept  well  up  among  the  branches,  were  rather  slow 
in  their  movements,  and  evidently  disposed  to  tarry 
but  a  short  time. 

The  summer  residents  here,  belonging  to  this 
class  of  birds,  are  few.  I  have  observed  the  black 
and  white  creeping  warbler,  the  Kentucky  warbler, 
the  worm-eating  warbler,  the  redstart,  and  the  gnat- 
catcher,  breeding  near  Bock  Creek. 

Of  these  the  Kentucky  warbler  is  by  far  the  most 
interesting,  though  quite  rare.  I  meet  with  him  in 
low,  damp  places  in  the  woods,  usually  on  the  steep 
sides  of  some  little  run.  I  hear  at  intervals  a  clear, 
strong,  bell-like  whistle  or  warble,  and  presently 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  bird  as  he  jumps  up  from  the 
ground  to  take  an  insect  or  worm  from  the  under 
side  of  a  leaf.  This  is  his  characteristic  movement. 
He  belongs  to  the  class  of  ground  warblers,  and  his 
range  is  very  low,  indeed  lower  than  that  of  any 
other  species  with  which  I  am  acquainted.  He  is 
on  the  ground  nearly  all  the  time,  moving  rapidly 
along,  taking  spiders  and  bugs,  overturning  leaves, 
peeping  under  sticks  and  into  crevices  and  every 


150  WAKE-ROBIN 

now  and  then  leaping  up  eight  or  ten  inches  to 
take  his  game  from  beneath  some  overhanging  leaf 
or  branch.  Thus  each  species  has  its  range  more 
or  less  marked.  Draw  a  line  three  feet  from  the 
ground,  and  you  mark  the  usual  limit  of  the  Ken- 
tucky warbler's  quest  for  food.  Six  or  eight  feet 
higher  bounds  the  usual  range  of  such  birds  as  the 
worm-eating  warbler,  the  mourning  ground  warbler, 
the  Maryland  yellow-throat.  The  lower  branches 
of  the  higher  growths  and  the  higher  branches  of 
the  lower  growths  are  plainly  preferred  by  the  black- 
throated  blue-backed  warbler,  in  those  localities 
where  he  is  found.  The  thrushes  feed  mostly  on 
and  near  the  ground,  while  some  of  the  vireos  and 
the  true  flycatchers  explore  the  highest  branches. 
But  the  warblers,  as  a  rule,  are  all  partial  to  thick, 
rank  undergrowths. 

The  Kentucky  warbler  is  a  large  bird  for  the 
genus  and  quite  notable  in  appearance.  His  back 
is  clear  olive-green,  his  throat  and  breast  bright 
yellow.  A  still  more  prominent  feature  is  a  black 
streak  on  the  side  of  the  face,  extending  down  the 
neck. 

Another  familiar  bird  here,  which  I  never  met 
with  in  the  North,  is  the  gnatcatcher,  called  by 
Audubon  the  blue-gray  flycatching  warbler.  In 
form  and  manner  it  seems  almost  a  duplicate  of  the 
catbird  on  a  small  scale.  It  mews  like  a  young 
kitten,  erects  its  tail,  flirts,  droops  its  wings,  goes 
through  a  variety  of  motions  when  disturbed  by 
your  presence,  and  in  many  ways  recalls  its  dusky 


SPRING  AT   THE  CAPITAL  151 

prototype.  Its  color  above  is  a  light  gray-blue, 
gradually  fading  till  it  becomes  white  on  the  breast 
and  belly.  It  is  a  very  small  bird,  and  has  a  long, 
facile,  slender  tail.  Its  song  is  a  lisping,  chatter- 
ing, incoherent  warble,  now  faintly  reminding  one 
of  the  goldfinch,  now  of  a  miniature  catbird,  then 
of  a  tiny  yellow-hammer,  having  much  variety,  but 
no  unity  and  little  cadence. 

Another  bird  which  has  interested  me  here  is  the 
Louisiana  water- thrush,  called  also  large-billed  water- 
thrush,  and  water-wagtail.  It  is  one  of  a  trio  of 
birds  which  has  confused  the  ornithologists  much. 
The  other  two  species  are  the  well-known  golden- 
crowned  thrush  or  wood-wagtail,  and  the  northern, 
or  small,  water- thrush. 

The  present  species,  though  not  abundant,  is  fre- 
quently met  with  along  Bock  Creek.  It  is  a  very 
quick,  vivacious  bird,  and  belongs  to  the  class  of 
ecstatic  singers.  I  have  seen  a  pair  of  these  thrushes, 
on  a  bright  May  day,  flying  to  and  fro  between  two 
spring  runs,  alighting  at  intermediate  points,  the 
male  breaking  out  into  one  of  the  most  exuberant, 
unpremeditated  strains  I  ever  heard.  Its  song  is 
a  sudden  burst,  beginning  with  three  or  four  clear 
round  notes  much  resembling  certain  tones  of  the 
clarionet,  and  terminating  in  a  rapid,  intricate  warble. 

This  bird  resembles  a  thrush  only  in  its  color, 
which  is  olive-brown  above  and  grayish  white  be- 
neath, with  speckled  throat  and  breast.  Its  habits, 
manners,  and  voice  suggest  those  of  the  lark. 

I  seldom  go  the  Kock  Creek  route  without  being 


152  WAKE-ROBIN 

amused  and  sometimes  annoyed  by  the  yellow- 
breasted  chat.  This  bird  also  has  something  of  the 
manners  and  build  of  the  catbird,  yet  he  is  truly  an 
original.  The  catbird  is  mild  and  feminine  com- 
pared with  this  rollicking  polyglot.  His  voice  is 
very  loud  and  strong  and  quite  uncanny.  No  sooner 
have  you  penetrated  his  retreat,  which  is  usually  a 
thick  undergrowth  in  low,  wet  localities,  near  the 
woods  or  in  old  fields,  than  he  begins  his  serenade, 
which  for  the  variety,  grotesqueness,  and  uncouth- 
ness  of  the  notes  is  not  unlike  a  country  skimmer- 
ton.  If  one  passes  directly  along,  the  bird  may 
scarcely  break  the  silence.  But  pause  a  while,  or 
loiter  quietly  about,  and  your  presence  stimulates 
him  to  do  his  best.  He  peeps  quizzically  at  you 
from  beneath  the  branches,  and  gives  a  sharp  feline 
mew.  In  a  moment  more  he  says  very  distinctly, 
who,  who.  Then  in  rapid  succession  follow  notes 
the  most  discordant  that  ever  broke  the  sylvan  si- 
lence. Now  he  barks  like  a  puppy,  then  quacks 
like  a  duck,  then  rattles  like  a  kingfisher,  then 
squalls  like  a  fox,  then  caws  like  a  crow,  then  mews 
like  a  cat.  Now  he  calls  as  if  to  be  heard  a  long 
way  off,  then  changes  his  key,  as  if  addressing  the 
spectator.  Though  very  shy,  and  carefully  keeping 
himself  screened  when  you  show  any  disposition  to 
get  a  better  view,  he  will  presently,  if  you  remain 
quiet,  ascend  a  twig,  or  hop  out  on  a  branch  in 
plain  sight,  lop  his  tail,  droop  his  wings,  cock  his 
head,  and  become  very  melodramatic.  In  less  than 
half  a  minute  he  darts  into  the  bushes  again,  and 


SPRING  AT  THE  CAPITAL  153 

again  tunes  up,  no  Frenchman  rolling  his  r's  so 
fluently.  C-r-r-r-r-r, — whrr,  —  that 's  it,  —  chee, 
—  quack,  cluck,  —  yit-yit-yit,  —  now  hit  it,  — 
tr-r-r-r,  —  when,  —  caw,  caw,  —  cut,  cut,  —  tea- 
boy,  —  who,  who,  —  mew,  mew,  —  and  so  on  till 
you  are  tired  of  listening.  Observing  one  very 
closely  one  day,  I  discovered  that  he  was  limited 
to  six  notes  or  changes,  which  he  went  through  in 
regular  order,  scarcely  varying  a  note  in  a  dozen 
repetitions.  Sometimes,  when  a  considerable  dis- 
tance off,  he  will  fly  down  to  have  a  nearer  view  of 
you.  And  such  a  curious,  expressive  flight,  —  legs 
extended,  head  lowered,  wings  rapidly  vibrating, 
the  whole  action  piquant  and  droll! 

The  chat  is  an  elegant  bird,  both  in  form  and 
color.  Its  plumage  is  remarkably  firm  and  compact. 
Color  above,  light  olive-green;  beneath,  bright  yel- 
low; beak,  black  and  strong. 

The  cardinal  grosbeak,  or  Virginia  redbird,  is 
quite  common  in  the  same  localities,  though  more 
inclined  to  seek  the  woods.  It  is  much  sought 
after  by  bird-fanciers,  and  by  boy  gunners,  and 
consequently  is  very  shy.  This  bird  suggests  a 
British  redcoat;  his  heavy,  pointed  beak,  his  high 
cockade,  the  black  stripe  down  his  face,  the  expres- 
sion of  weight  and  massiveness  about  his  head  and 
neck,  and  his  erect  attitude,  give  him  a  decided 
soldier-like  appearance;  and  there  is  something  of 
the  tone  of  the  fife  in  his  song  or  whistle,  while 
his  ordinary  note,  when  disturbed,  is  like  the  clink 
of  a  sabre.  Yesterday,  as  I  sat  indolently  swing- 


154  WAKE-ROBIN 

ing  in  the  loop  of  a  grapevine,  beneath  a  thick 
canopy  of  green  branches,  in  a  secluded  nook  by  a 
spring  run,  one  of  these  birds  came  pursuing  some 
kind  of  insect,  but  a  few  feet  above  me.  He 
hopped  about,  now  and  then  uttering  his  sharp 
note,  till,  some  moth  or  beetle  trying  to  escape,  he 
broke  down  through  the  cover  almost  where  I  sat. 
The  effect  was  like  a  firebrand  coming  down  through 
the  branches.  Instantly  catching  sight  of  me,  he 
darted  away  much  alarmed.  The  female  is  tinged 
with  brown,  and  shows  but  little  red  except  when 
she  takes  flight. 

By  far  the  most  abundant  species  of  woodpecker 
about  Washington  is  the  red-headed.  It  is  more 
common  than  the  robin.  Not  in  the  deep  woods, 
but  among  the  scattered  dilapidated  oaks  and  groves, 
on  the  hills  and  in  the  fields,  I  hear  almost  every 
day  his  uncanny  note,  ktr-rr,  ktr-r-r,  like  that  of 
some  larger  tree-toad,  proceeding  from  an  oak  grove 
just  beyond  the  boundary.  He  is  a  strong- scented 
fellow,  and  very  tough.  Yet  how  beautiful,  as  he 
flits  about  the  open  woods,  connecting  the  trees  by 
a  gentle  arc  of  crimson  and  white !  This  is  another 
bird  with  a  military  look.  His  deliberate,  dignified 
ways,  and  his  bright  uniform  of  red,  white,  and 
steel-blue,  bespeak  him  an  officer  of  rank. 

Another  favorite  beat  of  mine  is  northeast  of  the 
city.  Looking  from  the  Capitol  in  this  direction, 
scarcely  more  than  a  mile  distant,  you  see  a  broad 
green  hill-slope,  falling  very  gently,  and  spreading 
into  a  large  expanse  of  meadow-land.  The  summit, 


SPRING   AT   THE   CAPITAL  155 

if  so  gentle  a  swell  of  greensward  may  be  said  to 
have  a  summit,  is  covered  with  a  grove  of  large 
oaks;  and,  sweeping  back  out  of  sight  like  a  man- 
tle, the  front  line  of  a  thick  forest  bounds  the  sides. 
This  emerald  landscape  is  seen  from  a  number  of 
points  in  the  city.  Looking  along  New  York 
Avenue  from  Northern  Liberty  Market,  the  eye 
glances,  as  it  were,  from  the  red  clay  of  the  street, 
and  alights  upon  this  fresh  scene  in  the  distance. 
It  is  a  standing  invitation  to  the  citizen  to  come 
forth  and  be  refreshed.  As  I  turn  from  some  hot, 
hard  street,  how  inviting  it  looks!  I  bathe  my 
eyes  in  it  as  in  a  fountain.  Sometimes  troops  of 
cattle  are  seen  grazing  upon  it.  In  June  the  gath- 
ering of  the  hay  may  be  witnessed.  When  the 
ground  is  covered  with  snow,  numerous  stacks,  or 
clusters  of  stacks,  are  still  left  for  the  eye  to  con- 
template. 

The  woods  which  clothe  the  east  side  of  this  hill, 
and  sweep  away  to  the  east,  are  among  the  most 
charming  to  be  found  in  the  District.  The  main 
growth  is  oak  and  chestnut,  with  a  thin  sprinkling 
of  laurel,  azalea,  and  dogwood.  It  is  the  only  lo- 
cality in  which  I  have  found  the  dogtooth  violet 
in  bloom,  and  the  best  place  I  know  of  to  gather 
arbutus.  On  one  slope  the  ground  is  covered  with 
moss,  through  which  the  arbutus  trails  its  glories. 

Emerging  from  these  woods  toward  the  city,  one 
sees  the  white  dome  of  the  Capitol  soaring  over  the 
green  swell  of  earth  immediately  in  front,  and  lift- 
ing its  four  thousand  tons  of  iron  gracefully  and 


156  WAKE-ROBIN 

lightly  into  the  air.  Of  all  the  sights  in  Washing- 
ton, that  which  will  survive  longest  in  my  memory 
is  the  vision  of  the  great  dome  thus  rising  cloud- 
like  above  the 

1868. 


VI 

BIRCH  BROWSINGS 

region  of  which  I  am  about  to  speak  lies  in 
the  southern  part  of  the  State  of  New  York, 
and  comprises  parts  of  three  counties,  —  Ulster, 
Sullivan,  and  Delaware.  It  is  drained  by  tributa- 
ries of  both  the  Hudson  and  Delaware,  and,  next  to 
the  Adirondack  section,  contains  more  wild  land 
than  any  other  tract  in  the  State.  The  mountains 
which  traverse  it,  and  impart  to  it  its  severe  north- 
ern climate,  belong  properly  to  the  Catskill  range. 
On  some  maps  of  the  State  they  are  called  the  Pine 
Mountains,  though  with  obvious  local  impropriety, 
as  pine,  so  far  as  I  have  observed,  is  nowhere  found 
upon  them.  "Birch  Mountains"  would  be  a  more 
characteristic  name,  as  on  their  summits  birch  is 
the  prevailing  tree.  They  are  the  natural  home  of 
the  black  and  yellow  birch,  which  grow  here  to 
unusual  size.  On  their  sides  beech  and  maple 
abound;  while,  mantling  their  lower  slopes  and 
darkening  the  valleys,  hemlock  formerly  enticed 
the  lumberman  and  tanner.  Except  in  remote  or 
inaccessible  localities,  the  latter  tree  is  now  almost 
never  found.  In  Shandaken  and  along  the  Esopus 
it  is  about  the  only  product  the  country  yielded,  or 


158  WAKE-ROBIN 

is  likely  to  yield.  Tanneries  by  the  score  have 
arisen  and  flourished  upon  the  bark,  and  some  of 
them  still  remain.  Passing  through  that  region  the 
present  season,  I  saw  that  the  few  patches  of  hem- 
lock that  still  lingered  high  up  on  the  sides  of  the 
mountains  were  being  felled  and  peeled,  the  fresh 
white  boles  of  the  trees,  just  stripped  of  their  bark, 
being  visible  a  long  distance. 

Among  these  mountains  there  are  no  sharp  peaks, 
or  abrupt  declivities,  as  in  a  volcanic  region,  but 
long,  uniform  ranges,  heavily  timbered  to  their  sum- 
mits, and  delighting  the  eye  with  vast,  undulating 
horizon  lines.  Looking  south  from  the  heights  about 
the  head  of  the  Delaware,  one  sees,  twenty  miles 
away,  a  continual  succession  of  blue  ranges,  one  be- 
hind the  other.  If  a  few  large  trees  are  missing 
on  the  sky  line,  one  can  see  the  break  a  long  dis^ 
tance  off. 

Approaching  this  region  from  the  Hudson  River 
side,  you  cross  a  rough,  rolling  stretch  of  country, 
skirting  the  base  of  the  Catskills,  which  from  a 
point  near  Saugerties  sweep  inland;  after  a  drive 
of  a  few  hours  you  are  within  the  shadow  of  a  high, 
bold  mountain,  which  forms  a  sort  of  butt-end  to 
this  part  of  the  range,  and  which  is  simply  called 
High  Point.  To  the  east  and  southeast  it  slopes 
down  rapidly  to  the  plain,  and  looks  defiance  toward 
the  Hudson,  twenty  miles  distant;  in  the  rear  of 
it,  and  radiating  from  it  west  and  northwest,  are 
numerous  smaller  ranges,  backing  up,  as  it  were, 
this  haughty  chief. 


BIRCH   BROWSINGS  159 

From  this  point  through  to  Pennsylvania,  a  dis- 
tance of  nearly  one  hundred  miles,  stretches  the 
tract  of  which  I  speak.  It  is  a  belt  of  country  from 
twenty  to  thirty  miles  wide,  bleak  and  wild,  and 
but  sparsely  settled.  The  traveler  on  the  New 
York  and  Erie  Railroad  gets  a  glimpse  of  it. 

Many  cold,  rapid  trout  streams,  which  flow  to 
all  points  of  the  compass,  have  their  source  in  the 
small  lakes  and  copious  mountain  springs  of  this 
region.  The  names  of  some  of  them  are  Mill 
Brook,  Dry  Brook,  Willewemack,  Beaver  Kill,  Elk 
Bush  Kill,  Panther  Kill,  Neversink,  Big  Ingin, 
and  Callikoon.  Beaver  Kill  is  the  main  outlet  on 
the  west.  It  joins  the  Delaware  in  the  wilds  of 
Hancock.  The  Neversink  lays  open  the  region  to 
the  south,  and  also  joins  the  Delaware.  To  the 
east,  various  Kills  unite  with  the  Big  Ingin  to  form 
the  Esopus,  which  flows  into  the  Hudson.  Dry 
Brook  and  Mill  Brook,  both  famous  trout  streams, 
from  twelve  to  fifteen  miles  long,  find  their  way 
into  the  Delaware. 

The  east  or  Pepacton  branch  of  the  Delaware 
itself  takes  its  rise  near  here  in  a  deep  pass  between 
the  mountains.  I  have  many  times  drunk  at  a 
copious  spring  by  the  roadside,  where  the  infant 
river  first  sees  the  light.  A  few  yards  beyond,  the 
water  flows  the  other  way,  directing  its  course 
through  the  Bear  Kill  and  Schoharie  Kill  into  the 
Mohawk. 

Such  game  and  wild  animals  as  still  linger  in  the 
State  are  found  in  this  region.  Bears  occasionally 


160  WAKE-ROBIN 

make  havoc  among  the  sheep.  The  clearings  at  the 
head  of  a  valley  are  oftenest  the  scene  of  their  dep- 
redations. 

Wild  pigeons,  in  immense  numbers,  used  to  breed 
regularly  in  the  valley  of  the  Big  Ingin  and  about 
the  head  of  the  Neversink.  The  treetops  for  miles 
were  full  of  their  nests,  while  the  going  and  coming 
of  the  old  birds  kept  up  a  constant  din.  But  the 
gunners  soon  got  wind  of  it,  and  from  far  and  near 
were  wont  to  pour  in  during  the  spring,,  and  to 
slaughter  both  old  and  young.  This  practice  soon 
had  the  effect  of  driving  the  pigeons  all  away,  and 
now  only  a  few  pairs  breed  in  these  woods. 

Deer  are  still  met  with,  though  they  are  becom- 
ing scarcer  every  year.  Last  winter  near  seventy 
head  were  killed  on  the  Beaver  Kill  alone.  I  heard 
of  one  wretch,  who,  finding  the  deer  snowbound, 
walked  up  to  them  on  his  snowshoes,  and  one  morn- 
ing before  breakfast  slaughtered  six,  leaving  their 
carcasses  where  they  fell.  There  are  traditions  of 
persons  having  been  smitten  blind  or  senseless  when 
about  to  commit  some  heinous  offense,  but  the  fact 
that  this  villain  escaped  without  some  such  visita- 
tion throws  discredit  on  all  such  stories. 

The  great  attraction,  however,  of  this  region,  is 
the  brook  trout,  with  which  the  streams  and  lakes 
abound.  The  water  is  of  excessive  coldness,  the 
thermometer  indicating  44°  and  45°  in  the  springs, 
and  47°  or  48°  in  the  smaller  streams.  The  trout 
are  generally  small,  but  in  the  more  remote  branches 
their  number  is  very  great.  In  such  localities  the 


BIRCH  BROWSINGS  161 

fish  are  quite  black,  but  in  the  lakes  they  are  of  a 
lustre  and  brilliancy  impossible  to  describe. 

These  waters  have  been  much  visited  of  late  years 
by  fishing  parties,  and  the  name  of  Beaver  Kill  is 
now  a  potent  word  among  New  York  sportsmen. 

One  lake,  in  the  wilds  of  Callikoon,  abounds  in 
a  peculiar  species  of  white  sucker,  which  is  of  excel- 
lent quality.  It  is  taken  only  in  spring,  during 
the  spawning  season,  at  the  time  "when  the  leaves 
are  as  big  as  a  chipmunk's  ears."  The  fish  run  up 
the  small  streams  and  inlets,  beginning  at  nightfall, 
and  continuing  till  the  channel  is  literally  packed 
with  them,  and  every  inch  of  space  is  occupied. 
The  fishermen  pounce  upon  them  at  such  times,  and 
scoop  them  up  by  the  bushel,  usually  wading  right 
into  the  living  mass  and  landing  the  fish  with  their 
hands.  A  small  party  will  often  secure  in  this 
manner  a  wagon  load  of  fish.  Certain  conditions  of 
the  weather,  as  a  warm  south  or  southwest  wind, 
are  considered  most  favorable  for  the  fish  to  run. 

Though  familiar  all  my  life  with  the  outskirts  of 
this  region,  I  have  only  twice  dipped  into  its  wilder 
portions.  Once  in  1860  a  friend  and  myself  traced 
the  Beaver  Kill  to  its  source,  and  encamped  by 
Balsam  Lake.  A  cold  and  protracted  rainstorm 
coming  on,  we  were  obliged  to  leave  the  woods 
before  we  were  ready.  Neither  of  us  will  soon  for- 
get that  tramp  by  an  unknown  route  over  the  moun- 
tains, incumbered  as  we  were  with  a  hundred  and 
one  superfluities  which  we  had  foolishly  brought 
along  to  solace  ourselves  with  in  the  woods;  nor 


162  WAKE-ROBIN 

that  halt  on  the  summit,  where  we  cooked  and  ate 
our  fish  in  ajdrizzling  rain;  nor,  again,  that  rude 
log  house,  with  its  sweet  hospitality,  which  we 
reached  just  at  nightfall  on  Mill  Brook. 

In  1868  a  party  of  three  of  us  set  out  for  a 
brief  trouting  excursion  to  a  body  of  water  called 
Thomas's  Lake,  situated  in  the  same  chain  of  moun- 
tains. On  this  excursion,  more  particularly  than 
on  any  other  I  have  ever  undertaken,  I  was  taught 
how  poor  an  Indian  I  should  make,  and  what  a 
ridiculous  figure  a  party  of  men  may  cut  in  the 
woods  when  the  way  is  uncertain  and  the  mountains 
high. 

We  left  our  team  at  a  farmhouse  near  the  head 
of  the  Mill  Brook,  one  June  afternoon,  and  with 
knapsacks  on  our  shoulders  struck  into  the  woods 
at  the  base  of  the  mountain,  hoping  to  cross  the 
range  that  intervened  between  us  and  the  lake  by 
sunset.  We  engaged  a  good-natured  but  rather 
indolent  young  man,  who  happened  to  be  stopping 
at  the  house,  and  who  had  carried  a  knapsack  in 
the  Union  armies,  to  pilot  us  a  couple  of  miles 
into  the  woods  so  as  to  guard  against  any  mistakes 
at  the  outset.  It  seemed  the  easiest  thing  in  the 
world  to  find  the  lake.  The  lay  of  the  land  was 
so  simple,  according  to  accounts,  that  I  felt  sure  I 
could  go  to  it  in  the  dark.  "Go  up  this  little 
brook  to  its  source  on  the  side  of  the  mountain," 
they  said.  "The  valley  that  contains  the  lake 
heads  directly  on  the  other  side."  What  could  be 
easier!  But  on  a  little  further  inquiry,  they  said 


BIRCH  BROWSINGS  163 

We  should  "bear  well  to  the  left"  when  we  reached 
the  top  of  the  mountain.  This  opened  the  doors 
again;  "bearing  well  to  the  left"  was  an  uncertain 
performance  in  strange  woods.  We  might  bear  so 
well  to  the  left  that  it  would  bring  us  ill.  But 
why  bear  to  the  left  at  all,  if  the  lake  was  directly 
opposite  ?  Well,  not  quite  opposite ;  a  little  to  the 
left.  There  were  two  or  three  other  valleys  that 
headed  in  near  there.  We  could  easily  find  the 
right  one.  But  to  make  assurance  doubly  sure,  we 
engaged  a  guide,  as  stated,  to  give  us  a  good  start, 
and  go  with  us  beyond  the  bearing-to-the-left  point. 
He  had  been  to  the  lake  the  winter  before  and  knew 
the  way.  Our  course,  the  first  half  hour,  was  along 
an  obscure  wood-road  which  had  been  used  for  draw- 
ing ash  logs  off  the  mountain  in  winter.  There  was 
some  hemlock,  but  more  maple  and  birch.  The 
woods  were  dense  and  free  from  underbrush,  the 
ascent  gradual.  Most  of  the  way  we  kept  the  voice 
of  the  creek  in  our  ear  on  the  right.  I  approached 
it  once,  and  found  it  swarming  with  trout.  The 
water  was  as  cold  as  one  ever  need  wish.  After  a 
while  the  ascent  grew  steeper,  the  creek  became  a 
mere  rill  that  issued  from  beneath  loose,  moss-cov- 
ered rocks  and  stones,  and  with  much  labor  and 
puffing  we  drew  ourselves  up  the  rugged  declivity. 
Every  mountain  has  its  steepest  point,  which  is 
usually  near  the  summit,  in  keeping,  I  suppose, 
with  the  providence  that  makes  the  darkest  hour 
just  before  day.  It  is  steep,  steeper,  steepest,  till 
you  emerge  on  the  smooth  level  or  gently  rounded 


164  WAKE-ROBIN 

space  at  the  top,  which  the  old  ice- gods  polished 
off  so  long  ago. 

We  found  this  mountain  had  a  hollow  in  its  back 
where  the  ground  was  soft  and  swampy.  Some 
gigantic  ferns,  which  we  passed  through,  came 
nearly  to  our  shoulders.  We  passed  also  several 
patches  of  swamp  honeysuckles,  red  with,  blossoms. 

Our  guide  at  length  paused  on  a  big  rock  where 
the  land  began  to  dip  down  the  other  way,  and  con- 
cluded that  he  had  gone  far  enough,  and  that  we 
would  now  have  no  difficulty  in  finding  the  lake. 
"It  must  lie  right  down  there,"  he  said,  pointing 
with  his  hand.  But  it  was  plain  that  he  was  not 
quite  sure  in  his  own  mind.  He  had  several  times 
wavered  in  his  course,  and  had  shown  considerable 
embarrassment  when  bearing  to  the  left  across  the 
summit.  Still  we  thought  little  of  it.  We  were 
full  of  confidence,  and,  bidding  him  adieu,  plunged 
down  the  mountain-side,  following  a  spring  run  that 
we  had  no  doubt  led  to  the  lake. 

In  these  woods,  which  had  a  southeastern  expos- 
ure, I  first  began  to  notice  the  wood  thrush.  In 
coming  up  the  other  side  I  had  not  seen  a  feather 
of  any  kind,  or  heard  a  note.  Now  the  golden 
trillide-de  of  the  wood  thrush  sounded  through  the 
silent  woods.  While  looking  for  a  fish-pole  about 
half  way  down  the  mountain,  I  saw  a  thrush's  nest 
in  a  little  sapling  about  ten  feet  from  the  ground. 

After  continuing  our  descent  till  our  only  guide, 
the  spring  run,  became  quite  a  trout  brook,  and  its 
tiny  murmur  a  loud  brawl,  we  began  to  peer  anx- 


BIRCH   BROWSINGS  165 

iously  through  the  trees  for  a  glimpse  of  the  lake, 
or  for  some  conformation  of  the  land  that  would 
indicate  its  proximity.  An  object  which  we  vaguely 
discerned  in  looking  under  the  near  trees  and  over 
the  more  distant  ones  proved,  on  further  inspection, 
to  be  a  patch  of  plowed  ground.  Presently  we 
made  out  a  burnt  fallow  near  it.  This  was  a  wet 
blanket  to  our  enthusiasm.  No  lake,  no  sport,  no 
trout  for  supper  that  night.  The  rather  indolent 
young  man  had  either  played  us  a  trick,  or,  as 
seemed  more  likely,  had  missed  the  way.  We  were 
particularly  anxious  to  be  at  the  lake  between  sun- 
down and  dark,  as  at  that  time  the  trout  jump 
most  freely. 

Pushing  on,  we  soon  emerged  into  a  stumpy  field, 
at  the  head  of  a  steep  valley,  which  swept  around 
toward  the  west.  About  two  hundred  rods  below 
us  was  a  rude  log  house,  with  smoke  issuing  from 
the  chimney.  A  boy  came  out  and  moved  toward 
the  spring  with  a  pail  in  his  hand.  We  shouted  to 
him,  when  he  turned  and  ran  back  into  the  house 
without  pausing  to  reply.  In  a  moment  the  whole 
family  hastily  rushed  into  the  yard,  and  turned 
their  faces  toward  us.  If  we  had  come  down  their 
chimney,  they  could  not  have  seemed  more  aston- 
ished. Not  making  out  what  they  said,  I  went 
down  to  the  house,  and  learned  to  my  chagrin  that 
we  were  still  on  the  Mill  Brook  side,  having  crossed 
only  a  spur  of  the  mountain.  We  had  not  borne 
sufficiently  to  the  left,  so  that  the  main  range, 
which,  at  the  point  of  crossing,  suddenly  breaks  off 


166  WAKE-ROBIN 

to  the  southeast,  still  intervened  between  us  and 
the  lake.  We  were  about  five  miles,  as  the  water 
runs,  from  the  point  of  starting,  and  over  two  from 
the  lake.  We  must  go  directly  back  to  the  top  of 
the  range  where  the  guide  had  left  us,  and  then,  by 
keeping  well  to  the  left,  we  would  soon  come  to  a 
line  of  marked  trees,  which  would  lead  us  to  the 
lake.  So,  turning  upon  our  trail,  we  doggedly  be- 
gan the  work  of  undoing  what  we  had  just  done,  — 
in  all  cases  a  disagreeable  task,  in  this  case  a  very 
laborious  one  also.  It  was  after  sunset  when  we 
turned  back,  and  before  we  had  got  half  way  up 
the  mountain  it  began  to  be  quite  dark.  We  were 
often  obliged  to  rest  our  packs  against  trees  and  take 
breath,  which  made  our  progress  slow.  Finally  a 
halt  was  called,  beside  an  immense  flat  rock  which 
had  paused  in  its  slide  down  the  mountain,  and  we 
prepared  to  encamp  for  the  night.  A  fire  was  built, 
the  rock  cleared  off,  a  small  ration  of  bread  served 
out,  our  accoutrements  hung  up  out  of  the  way  of 
the  hedgehogs  that  were  supposed  to  infest  the 
locality,  and  then  we  disposed  ourselves  for  sleep. 
If  the  owls  or  porcupines  (and  I  think  I  heard  one 
of  the  latter  in  the  middle  of  the  night)  reconnoitred 
our  camp,  they  saw  a  buffalo  robe  spread  upon  a 
rock,  with  three  old  felt  hats  arranged  on  one  side, 
and  three  pairs  of  sorry-looking  cowhide  boots  pro- 
truding from  the  other. 

When  we  lay  down,  there  was  apparently  not  a 
mosquito  in  the  woods;  but  the  "no-see-ems,"  as 
Thoreau's  Indian  aptly  named  the  midges,  soon 


BIRCH   BROWSINGS  167 

found  us  out,  and  after  the  fire  had  gone  down 
annoyed  us  much.  My  hands  and  wrists  suddenly 
began  to  smart  and  itch  in  a  most  unaccountable 
manner.  My  first  thought  was  that  they  had  been 
poisoned  in  some  way.  Then  the  smarting  ex- 
tended to  my  neck  and  face,  even  to  my  scalp, 
when  I  began  to  suspect  what  was  the  matter.  So, 
wrapping  myself  up  more  thoroughly,  and  stowing 
my  hands  away  as  best  I  could,  I  tried  to  sleep, 
being  some  time  behind  my  companions,  who  ap- 
peared not  to  mind  the  "  no-see-ems. "  I  was  fur- 
ther annoyed  by  some  little  irregularity  on  my  side 
of  the  couch.  The  chambermaid  had  not  beaten  it 
up  well.  One  huge  lump  refused  to  be  mollified, 
and  each  attempt  to  adapt  it  to  some  natural  hol- 
low in  my  own  body  brought  only  a  moment's  re- 
lief. But  at  last  I  got  the  better  of  this  also  and 
slept.  Late  in  the  night  I  woke  up,  just  in  time 
to  hear  a  golden-crowned  thrush  sing  in  a  tree  near 
by.  It  sang  as  loud  and  cheerily  as  at  midday,  and 
I  thought  myself  after  all,  quite  in  luck.  Birds 
occasionally  sing  at  night,  just  as  the  cock  crows. 
I  have  heard  the  hairbird,  and  the  note  of  the 
kingbird;  and  the  ruffed  grouse  frequently  drums 
at  night. 

At  the  first  faint  signs  of  day  a  wood-thrush  sang, 
a  few  rods  below  us.  Then  after  a  little  delay,  as 
the  gray  light  began  to  grow  around,  thrushes  broke 
out  in  full  song  in  all  parts  of  the  woods.  I  thought 
I  had  never  before  heard  them  sing  so  sweetly. 
Such  a  leisurely,  golden  chant !  —  it  consoled  us  for 


168  WAKE-ROBIN 

all  we  had  undergone.  It  was  the  first  thing  in 
order,  —  the  worms  were  safe  till  after  this  morning 
chorus.  I  judged  that  the  birds  roosted  but  a  few 
feet  from  the  ground.  In  fact,  a  bird  in  all  cases 
roosts  where  it  builds,  and  the  wood  thrush  occu- 
pies, as  it  were,  the  first  story  of  the  woods. 

There  is  something  singular  about  the  distribu- 
tion of  the  wood  thrushes.  At  an  earlier  stage  of 
my  observations  I  should  have  been  much  surprised 
at  finding  it  in  these  woods.  Indeed,  I  had  stated 
in  print  on  two  occasions  that  the  wood  thrush  was 
not  found  in  the  higher  lands  of  the  Catskills,  but 
that  the  hermit  thrush  and  the  veery,  or  Wilson's 
thrush,  were  common.  It  turns  out  that  this  state- 
ment is  only  half  true.  The  wood  thrush  is  found 
also,  but  is  much  more  rare  and  secluded  in  its  hab- 
its than  either  of  the  others,  being  seen  only  during 
the  breeding  season  on  remote  mountains,  and  then 
only  on  their  eastern  and  southern  slopes.  I  have 
never  yet  in  this  region  found  the  bird  spending 
the  season  in  the  near  and  familiar  woods,  which  is 
directly  contrary  to  observations  I  have  made  in 
other  parts  of  the  State.  So  different  are  the  hab- 
its of  birds  in  different  localities. 

As  soon  as  it  was  fairly  light  we  were  up  and 
ready  to  resume  our  march.  A  small  bit  of  bread- 
and-butter  and  a  swallow  or  two  of  whiskey  was  all 
we  had  for  breakfast  that  -morning.  Our  supply  of 
each  was  very  limited,  and  we  were  anxious  to  save 
a  little  of  both,  to  relieve  the  diet  of  trout  to  which 
we  looked  forward. 


BIRCH   BROWSINGS  169 

At  an  early  hour  we  reached  the  rock  where  we 
had  parted  with  the  guide,,  and  looked  around  us 
into  the  dense,  trackless  woods  with  many  misgiv- 
ings. To  strike  out  now  on  our  own  hook,  where 
the  way  was  so  blind  and  after  the  experience  we 
had  just  had,  was  a  step  not  to  be  carelessly  taken. 
The  tops  of  these  mountains  are  so  broad,  and  a 
short  distance  in  the  woods  seems  so  far,  that  one 
is  by  no  means  master  of  the  situation  after  reach- 
ing the  summit.  And  then  there  are  so  many  spurs 
and  offshoots  and  changes  of  direction,  added  to  the 
impossibility  of  making  any  generalization  by  the 
aid  of  the  eye,  that  before  one  is  aware  of  it  he  is 
very  wide  of  his  mark. 

I  remembered  now  that  a  young  farmer  of  my 
acquaintance  had  told  me  how  he  had  made  a  long 
day's  march  through  the  heart  of  this  region,  with- 
out path  or  guide  of  any  kind,  and  had  hit  his 
mark  squarely.  He  had  been  barkpeeling  in  Cal- 
likoon,  —  a  famous  country  for  bark,  —  and,  having 
got  enough  of  it,  he  desired  to  reach  his  home  on 
Dry  Brook  without  making  the  usual  circuitous  jour- 
ney between  the  two  places.  To  do  this  necessi- 
tated a  march  of  ten  or  twelve  miles  across  several 
ranges  of  mountains  and  through  an  unbroken  for- 
est, —  a  hazardous  undertaking  in  which  no  one 
would  join  him.  Even  the  old  hunters  who  were 
familiar  with  the  ground  dissuaded  him  and  pre- 
dicted the  failure  of  his  enterprise.  But  having 
made  up  his  mind,  he  possessed  himself  thoroughly 
of  the  topography  of  the  country  from  the  aforesaid 


170  WAKE-ROBIN 

hunters,  shouldered  his  axe,  and  set  out,  holding 
a  straight  course  through  the  woods,  and  turning 
aside  for  neither  swamps,  streams,  nor  mountains. 
When  he  paused  to  rest  he  would  mark  some  object 
ahead  of  him  with  his  eye,  in  order  that  on  getting 
up  again  he  might  not  deviate  from  his  course.  His 
directors  had  told  him  of  a  hunter's  cabin  about 
midway  on  his  route,  which  if  he  struck  he  might 
be  sure  he  was  right.  About  noon  this  cabin  was 
reached,  and  at  sunset  he  emerged  at  the  head  of 
Dry  Brook. 

After  looking  in  vain  for  the  line  of  marked 
trees,  we  moved  off  to  the  left  in  a  doubtful,  hesi- 
tating manner,  keeping  on  the  highest  ground  and 
blazing  the  trees  as  we  went.  We  were  afraid  to 
go  down  hill,  lest  we  should  descend  too  soon;  our 
vantage-ground  was  high  ground.  A  thick  fog  com- 
ing on,  we  were  more  bewildered  than  ever.  Still 
we  pressed  forward,  climbing  up  ledges  and  wading 
through  ferns  for  about  two  hours,  when  we  paused 
by  a  spring  that  issued  from  beneath  an  immense 
wall  of  rock  that  belted  the  highest  part  of  the 
mountain.  There  was  quite  a  broad  plateau  here, 
and  the  birch  wood  was  very  dense,  and  the  trees 
of  unusual  size. 

After  resting  and  exchanging  opinions,  we  all 
concluded  that  it  was  best  not  to  continue  our  search 
incumbered  as  we  were;  but  we  were  not  willing  to 
abandon  it  altogether,  and  I  proposed  to  my  com- 
panions to  leave  them  beside  the  spring  with  our 
traps,  while  I  made  one  thorough  and  final  effort  to 


BIRCH   BROWSINGS  171 

find  the  lake.  If  I  succeeded  and  desired  them  to 
come  forward,  I  was  to  fire  my  gun  three  times;  if 
I  failed  and  wished  to  return,  I  would  fire  it  twice, 
they  of  course  responding. 

So,  filling  my  canteen  from  the  spring,  I  set  out 
again,  taking  the  spring  run  for  my  guide.  Before 
I  had  followed  it  two  hundred  yards  it  sank  into 
the  ground  at  my  feet.  I  had  half  a  mind  to  be 
superstitious  and  to  believe  that  we  were  under  a 
spell,  since  our  guides  played  us  such  tricks.  How- 
ever, I  determined  to  put  the  matter  to  a  further 
test,  and  struck  out  boldly  to  the  left.  This  seemed 
to  be  the  keyword,  —  to  the  left,  to  the  left.  The 
fog  had  now  lifted,  so  that  I  could  form  a  better 
idea  of  the  lay  of  the  land.  Twice  I  looked  down 
the  steep  sides  of  the  mountain,  sorely  tempted  to 
risk  a  plunge.  Still  I  hesitated  and  kept  along  on 
the  brink.  As  I  stood  -on  a  rock  deliberating,  I 
heard  a  crackling  of  the  brush,  like  the  tread  of 
some  large  game,  on  a  plateau  below  me.  Suspect- 
ing the  truth  of  the  case,  I  moved  stealthily  down, 
and  found  a  herd  of  young  cattle  leisurely  browsing. 
We  had  several  times  crossed  their  trail,  and  had 
seen  that  morning  a  level,  grassy  place  on  the  top 
of  the  mountain,  where  they  had  passed  the  night. 
Instead  of  being  frightened,  as  I  had  expected,  they 
seemed  greatly  delighted,  and  gathered  around  me 
as  if  to  inquire  the  tidings  from  the  outer  world,  — 
perhaps  the  quotations  of  the  cattle  market.  They 
came  up  to  me,  and  eagerly  licked  my  hand,  clothes, 
and  gun.  Salt  was  what  they  were  after,  and  they 


172  WAKE-ROBIN 

were  ready  to  swallow  anything  that  contained  the 
smallest  percentage  of  it.  They  were  mostly  year- 
lings and  as  sleek  as  moles.  They  had  a  very  gamy 
look.  We  were  afterwards  told  that,  in  the  spring, 
the  farmers  round  about  turn  into  these  woods  their 
young  cattle,  which  do  not  come  out  again  till  fall. 
They  are  then  in  good  condition,  —  not  fat,  like 
grass-fed  cattle,  but  trim  and  supple,  like  deer. 
Once  a  month  the  owner  hunts  them  up  and  salts 
them.  They  have  their  beats,  and  seldom  wander 
beyond  well-defined  limits.  It  was  interesting  to 
see  them  feed.  They  browsed  on  the  low  limbs 
and  bushes,  and  on  the  various  plants,  munching  at 
everything  without  any  apparent  discrimination. 

They  attempted  to  follow  me,  but  I  escaped  them 
by  clambering  down  some  steep  rocks.  I  now 
found  myself  gradually  edging  down  the  side  of  the 
mountain,  keeping  around  it  in  a  spiral  manner, 
and  scanning  the  woods  and  the  shape  of  the  ground 
for  some  encouraging  hint  or  sign.  Finally  the 
woods  became  more  open,  and  the  descent  less  rapid. 
The  trees  were  remarkably  straight  and  uniform  in 
size.  Black  birches,  the  first  I  had  seen,  were  very 
numerous.  I  felt  encouraged.  Listening  atten- 
tively, I  caught,  from  a  breeze  just  lifting  the  droop- 
ing leaves,  a  sound  that  I  willingly  believed  was 
made  by  a  bullfrog.  On  this  hint,  I  tore  down 
through  the  woods  at  my  highest  speed.  Then  I 
paused  and  listened  again.  This  time  there  was  no 
mistaking  it;  it  was  the  sound  of  frogs.  Much 
elated,  I  rushed  on.  By  and  by  I  could  hear  them 


BIRCH   BROWSINGS  173 

as  I  ran.  Pthrung,  pthrung,  croaked  the  old 
ones;  pug,  pity,  shrilly  joined  in  the  smaller  fry. 

Then  I  caught,  through  the  lower  trees,  a  gleam 
of  blue,  which  I  first  thought  was  distant  sky.  A 
second  look  and  I  knew  it  to  be  water,  and  in  a 
moment  more  I  stepped  from  the  woods  and  stood 
upon  the  shore  of  the  lake.  I  exulted  silently. 
There  it  was  at  last,  sparkling  in  the  morning  sun, 
and  as  beautiful  as  a  dream.  It  was  so  good  to 
come  upon  such  open  space  and  such  bright  hues, 
after  wandering  in  the  dim,  dense  woods !  The  eye 
is  as  delighted  as  an  escaped  bird,  and  darts  glee- 
fully from  point  to  point. 

The  lake  was  a  long  oval,  scarcely  more  than  a 
mile  in  circumference,  with  evenly  wooded  shores, 
which  rose  gradually  on  all  sides.  After  contem- 
plating the  scene  for  a  moment,  I  stepped  back  into 
the  woods,  and,  loading  my  gun  as  heavily  as  I 
dared,  discharged  it  three  times.  The  reports 
seemed  to  fill  all  the  mountains  with  sound.  The 
frogs  quickly  hushed,  and  I  listened  for  the  re- 
sponse. But  no  response  came.  Then  I  tried 
again  and  again,  but  without  evoking  an  answer. 
One  of  my  companions,  however,  who  had  climbed 
to  the  top  of  the  high  rocks  in  the  rear  of  the  spring, 
thought  he  heard  faintly  one  report.  It  seemed  an 
immense  distance  below  him,  and  far  around  under 
'the  mountain.  I  knew  I  had  come  a  long  way, 
and  hardly  expected  to  be  able  to  communicate  with 
my  companions  in  the  manner  agreed  upon.  I 
therefore  started  back,  choosing  my  course  without 


174  WAKE-ROBIN 

any  reference  to  the  circuitous  route  by  which  I  had 
come,  and  loading  heavily  and  firing  at  intervals. 
I  must  have  aroused  many  long-dormant  echoes 
from  a  Eip  Van  Winkle  sleep.  As  my  powder  got 
low,  I  fired  and  halloed  alternately,  till  I  came  near 
splitting  both  my  throat  and  gun.  Finally,  after  I 
had  begun  to  have  a  very  ugly  feeling  of  alarm  and 
disappointment,  and  to  cast  about  vaguely  for  some 
course  to  pursue  in  the  emergency  that  seemed  near 
at  hand,  —  namely,  the  loss  of  my  companions  now 
I  had  found  the  lake,  —  a  favoring  breeze  brought 
me  the  last  echo  of  a  response.  I  rejoined  with 
spirit,  and  hastened  with  all  speed  in  the  direction 
whence  the  sound  had  come,  but,  after  repeated 
trials,  failed  to  elicit  another  answering  sound. 
This  filled  me  with  apprehension  again.  I  feared 
that  my  friends  had  been  misled  by  the  reverbera- 
tions, and  I  pictured  them  to  myself  hastening  in 
the  opposite  direction.  Paying  little  attention  to 
my  course,  but  paying  dearly  for  my  carelessness 
afterward,  I  rushed  forward  to  undeceive  them. 
But  they  had  not  been  deceived,  and  in  a  few 
moments  an  answering  shout  revealed  them  near  at 
hand.  I  heard  their  tramp,  the  bushes  parted,  and 
we  three  met  again. 

In  answer  to  their  eager  inquiries,  I  assured  them 
that  I  had  seen  the  lake,  that  it  was  at  the  foot  of 
the  mountain,  and  that  we  could  not  miss  it  if  we 
kept  straight  down  from  where  we  then  were. 

My  clothes  were  soaked  with  perspiration,  but  I 
shouldered  my  knapsack  with  alacrity,  and  we  began 


BIRCH   BROWSINGS  175 

the  descent.  I  noticed  that  the  woods  were  much 
thicker,  and  had  quite  a  different  look  from  those 
I  had  passed  through,  but  thought  nothing  of  it,  as  I 
expected  to  strike  the  lake  near  its  head,  whereas 
I  had  before  come  out  at  its  foot.  We  had  not  gone 
far  when  we  crossed  a  line  of  marked  trees,  which 
my  companions  were  disposed  to  follow.  It  inter- 
sected our  course  nearly  at  right  angles,  and  kept 
along  and  up  the  side  of  the  mountain.  My  impres- 
sion was  that  it  led  up  from  the  lake,  and  that  by 
keeping  our  own  course  we  should  reach  the  lake 
sooner  than  if  we  followed  this  line. 

About  half  way  down  the  mountain,  we  could  see 
through  the  interstices  the  opposite  slope.  I  en- 
couraged my  comrades  by  telling  them  that  the  lake 
was  between  us  and  that,  and  not  more  than  half  a 
mile  distant.  We  soon  reached  the  bottom,  where 
we  found  a  small  stream  and  quite  an  extensive 
alder  swamp,  evidently  the  ancient  bed  of  a  lake.  I 
explained  to  my  half- vexed  and  half-incredulous  com- 
panions that  we  were  probably  above  the  lake,  and 
that  this  stream  must  lead  to  it.  "Follow  it,"  they 
said;  "we  will  wait  here  till  we  hear  from  you." 

So  I  went  on,  more  than  ever  disposed  to  believe 
that  we  were  under  a  spell,  and  that  the  lake  had 
slipped  from  my  grasp  after  all.  Seeing  no  favor- 
able sign  as  I  went  forward,  I  laid  down  my  accou- 
trements, and  climbed  a  decayed  beech  that  leaned 
out  over  the  swamp  and  promised  a  good  view  from 
the  top.  As  I  stretched  myself  up  to  look  around 
from  the  highest  attainable  branch,  there  was  sud- 


i76  WAKE-ROBIN 

denly  a  loud  crack  at  the  root.  With  a  celerity 
that  would  at  least  have  done  credit  to  a  bear,  I 
regained  the  ground,  having  caught  but  a  momen- 
tary glimpse  of  the  country,  but  enough  to  convince 
me  no  lake  was  near.  Leaving  all  incumbrances 
here  but  my  gun,  I  still  pressed  on,  loath  to  be 
thus  baffled.  After  floundering  through  another 
alder  swamp  for  nearly  half  a  mile,  I  flattered  my- 
self that  I  was  close  on  to  the  lake.  I  caught  sight 
of  a  low  spur  of  the  mountain  sweeping  around  like 
a  half-extended  arm,  and  I  fondly  imagined  that 
within  its  clasp  was  the  object  of  my  search.  But 
I  found  only  more  alder  swamp.  After  this  region 
was  cleared,  the  creek  began  to  descend  the  moun- 
tain very  rapidly.  Its  banks  became  high  and  nar- 
row, and  it  went  whirling  away  with  a  sound  that 
seemed  to  my  ears  like  a  burst  of  ironical  laughter. 
I  turned  back  with  a  feeling  of  mingled  disgust, 
shame,  and  vexation.  In  fact  I  was  almost  sick, 
and  when  I  reached  my  companions,  after  an  ab- 
sence of  nearly  two  hours,  hungry,  fatigued,  and 
disheartened,  I  would  have  sold  my  interest  in 
Thomas's  Lake  at  a  very  low  figure.  For  the  first 
time,  I  heartily  wished  myself  well  out  of  the 
woods.  Thomas  might  keep  his  lake,  and  the  en- 
chanters guard  his  possession !  I  doubted  if  he  had 
ever  found  it  the  second  time,  or  if  any  one  else 
ever  had. 

My  companions,  who  were  quite  fresh,  and  who 
had  not  felt  the  strain  of  baffled  purpose  as  I  had, 
assumed  a  more  encouraging  tone.  After  I  had 


BIRCH   BROWSINGS  177 

rested  a  while,  and  partaken  sparingly  of  the  bread 
and  whiskey,  which  in  such  an  emergency  is  a  great 
improvement  on  bread  and  water,  I  agreed  to  their 
proposition  that  we  should  make  another  attempt. 
As  if  to  reassure  us,  a  robin  sounded  his  cheery  call 
near  by,  and  the  winter  wren,  the  first  I  had  heard 
in  these  woods,  set  his  music-box  going,  which 
fairly  ran  over  with  fine,  gushing,  lyrical  sounds. 
There  can  be  no  doubt  but  this  bird  is  one  of  our 
finest  songsters.  If  it  would  only  thrive  and  sing 
well  when  caged,  like  the  canary,  how  far  it  would 
surpass  that  bird!  It  has  all  the  vivacity  and  ver- 
satility of  the  canary,  without  any  of  its  shrillness. 
Its  song  is  indeed  a  little  cascade  of  melody. 

We  again  .retraced  our  steps,  rolling  the  stone,  as 
it  were,  back  up  the  mountain,  determined  to  com- 
mit ourselves  to  the  line  of  marked  trees.  These 
we  finally  reached,  and,  after  exploring  the  country 
to  the  right,  saw  that  bearing  to  the  left  was  still 
the  order.  The  trail  led  up  over  a  gentle  rise  of 
ground,  and  in  less  than  twenty  minutes  we  were 
in  the  woods  I  had  passed  through  when  I  found 
the  lake.  The  error  I  had  made  was  then  plain; 
we  had  come  off  the  mountain  a  few  paces  too  far 
to  the  right,  and  so  had  passed  down  on  the  wrong 
side  of  the  ridge,  into  what  we  afterwards  learned 
was  the  valley  of  Alder  Creek. 

We  now  made  good  time,  and  before  many  minutes 
I  again  saw  the  mimic  sky  glance  through  the  trees. 
As  we  approached  the  lake  a  solitary  woodchuck, 
the  first  wild  animal  we  had  seen  since  entering  the 


178  WAKE-KOBIN 

woods,  sat  crouched  upon  the  root  of  a  tree  a  few 
feet  from  the  water,  apparently  completely  non- 
plussed by  the  unexpected  appearance  of  danger  on 
the  land  side.  All  retreat  was  cut  off,  and  he 
looked  his  fate  in  the  face  without  flinching.  I 
slaughtered  him  just  as  a  savage  would  have  done, 
and  from  the  same  motive,  —  I  wanted  his  carcass 
to  eat. 

The  mid-afternoon  sun  was  now  shining  upon 
the  lake,  and  a  low,  steady  breeze  drove  the  little 
waves  rocking  to  the  shore.  A  herd  of  cattle  were 
browsing  on  the  other  side,  and  the  bell  of  the 
leader  sounded  across  the  water.  In  these  solitudes 
its  clang  was  wild  and  musical. 

To  try  the  trout  was  the  first  thing  in  order. 
On  a  rude  raft  of  logs  which  we  found  moored  at 
the  shore,  and  which  with  two  aboard  shipped  about 
a  foot  of  water,  we  floated  out  and  wet  our  first  fly 
in  Thomas's  Lake;  but  the  trout  refused  to  jump, 
and,  to  be  frank,  not  more  than  a  dozen  and  a  half 
were  caught  during  our  stay.  Only  a  week  pre- 
vious, a  party  of  three  had  taken  in  a  few  hours  all 
the  fish  they  could  carry  out  of  the  woods,  and  had 
nearly  surfeited  their  neighbors  with  trout.  But 
from  some  cause  they  now  refused  to  rise,  or  to 
touch  any  kind  of  bait:  so  we  fell  to  catching  the 
sunfish,  which  were  small  but  very  abundant.  Their 
nests  were  all  along  shore.  A  space  about  the  size 
of  a  breakfast-plate  was  cleared  of  sediment  and 
decayed  vegetable  matter,  revealing  the  pebbly  bot- 
tom, fresh  and  bright,  with  one  or  two  fish  suspended 


BIRCH   BROWSINGS  179 

over  the  centre  of  it,  keeping  watch  and  ward.  If 
an  intruder  approached,  they  would  dart  at  him 
spitefully.  These  fish  have  the  air  of  bantam  cocks, 
and,  with  their  sharp,  prickly  fins  and  spines  and 
scaly  sides,  must  be  ugly  customers  in  a  hand-to- 
hand  encounter  with  other  finny  warriors.  To  a 
hungry  man  they  look  about  as  unpromising  as  hem- 
lock slivers,  so  thorny  and  thin  are  they;  yet  there 
is  sweet  meat  in  them,  as  we  found  that  day. 

Much  refreshed,  I  set  out  with  the  sun  low  in 
the  west  to  explore  the  outlet  of  the  lake  and  try 
for  trout  there,  while  my  companions  made  further 
trials  in  the  lake  itself.  The  outlet,  as  is  usual 
in  bodies  of  water  of  this  kind,  was  very  gentle  and 
private.  The  stream,  six  or  eight  feet  wide,  flowed 
silently  and  evenly  along  for  a  distance  of  three  or 
four  rods,  when  it  suddenly,  as  if  conscious  of  its 
freedom,  took  a  leap  down  some  rocks.  Thence,  as 
far  as  I  followed  it,  its  descent  was  very  rapid 
through  a  continuous  succession  of  brief  falls  like 
so  many  steps  down  the  mountain.  Its  appearance 
promised  more  trout  than  I  found,  though  I  re- 
turned to  camp  with  a  very  respectable  string. 

Toward  sunset  I  went  round  to  explore  the  inlet, 
and  found  that  as  usual  the  stream  wound  leisurely 
through  marshy  ground.  The  water  being  much 
colder  than  in  the  outlet,  the  trout  were  more  plen- 
tiful. As  I  was  picking  my  way  over  the  miry 
ground  and  through  the  rank  growths,  a  ruffed 
grouse  hopped  up  on  a  fallen  branch  a  few  paces 
before  me,  and,  jerking  his  tail,  threatened  to  take 


180  WAKE-ROBIN 

flight.  But  as  I  was  at  that  moment  gunless  and 
remained  stationary,  he  presently  jumped  down  and 
walked  away. 

A  seeker  of  birds,  and  ever  on  the  alert  for 
some  new  acquaintance,  my  attention  was  arrested, 
on  first  entering  the  swamp,  by  a  bright,  lively 
song,  or  warble,  that  issued  from  the  branches  over- 
head, and  that  was  entirely  new  to  me,  though 
there  was  something  in  the  tone  of  it  that  told  me 
the  bird  was  related  to  the  wood-wagtail  and  to  the 
water- wagtail  or  thrush.  The  strain  was  emphatic 
and  quite  loud,  like  the  canary's,  but  very  brief. 
The  bird  kept  itself  well  secreted  in  the  upper 
branches  of  the  trees,  and  for  a  long  time  eluded  my 
eye.  I  passed  to  and  fro  several  times,  and  it 
seemed  to  break  out  afresh  as  I  approached  a  cer- 
tain little  bend  in  the  creek,  and  to  cease  after  I 
had  got  beyond  it;  no  doubt  its  nest  was  somewhere 
in  the  vicinity.  After  some  delay  the  bird  was 
sighted  and  brought  down.  It  proved  to  be  the 
small,  or  northern,  water-thrush  (called  also  the  New 
York  water-thrush),  —  a  new  bird  to  me.  In  size  it 
was  noticeably  smaller  than  the  large,  or  Louisiana, 
water-thrush,  as  described  by  Audubon,  but  in  other 
respects  its  general  appearance  was  the  same.  It 
was  a  great  treat  to  me,  and  again  I  felt  myself  in 
luck. 

This  bird  was  unknown  to  the  older  ornitholo- 
gists, and  is  but  poorly  described  by  the  new.  It 
builds  a  mossy  nest  on  the  ground,  or  under  the 
edge  of  a  decayed  log.  A  correspondent  writes  me 


BIRCH  BROWSINGS  181 

that  he  has  found  it  breeding  on  the  mountains 
in  Pennsylvania.  The  large-billed  water-thrush  is 
much  the  superior  songster,  but  the  present  species 
has  a  very  bright  and  cheerful  strain.  The  speci- 
men I  saw,  contrary  to  the  habits  of  the  family, 
kept  in  the  treetops  like  a  warbler,  and  seemed  to 
be  engaged  in  catching  insects. 

The  birds  were  unusually  plentiful  and  noisy 
about  the  head  of  this  lake;  robins,  blue  jays,  and 
woodpeckers  greeted  me  with  their  familiar  notes. 
The  blue  jays  found  an  owl  or  some  wild  animal  a 
short  distance  above  me,  and,  as  is  their  custom  on 
such  occasions,  proclaimed  it  at  the  top  of  their 
voices,  and  kept  on  till  the  darkness  began  to  gather 
in  the  woods. 

I  also  heard  here,  as  I  had  at  two  or  three  other 
points  in  the  course  of  the  day,  the  peculiar,  reso- 
nant hammering  of  some  species  of  woodpecker  upon 
the  hard,  dry  limbs.  It  was  unlike  any  sound  of 
the  kind  I  had  ever  before  heard,  and,  repeated 
at  intervals  through  the  silent  woods,  was  a  very 
marked  and  characteristic  feature.  Its  peculiarity 
was  the  ordered  succession  of  the  raps,  which  gave  it 
the  character  of  a  premeditated  performance.  There 
were  first  three  strokes  following  each  other  rapidly, 
then  two  much  louder  ones  with  longer  intervals 
between  them.  I  heard  the  drumming  here, 
and  the  next  day  at  sunset  at  Furlow  Lake,  the 
source  of  Dry  Brook,  and  in  no  instance  was  the 
order  varied.  There  was  melody  in  it,  such  as  a 
woodpecker  knows  how  to  evoke  from  a  smooth, 


182  WAKE-ROBIN 

dry  branch.  It  suggested  something  quite  as  pleas- 
ing as  the  liveliest  bird-song,  and  was  if  anything 
more  woodsy  and  wild.  As  the  yellow-bellied  wood- 
pecker was  the  most  abundant  species  in  these 
woods,  I  attributed  it  to  him.  It  is  the  one  sound 
that  still  links  itself  with  those  scenes  in  my  mind. 

At  sunset  the  grouse  began  to  drum  in  all  parts 
of  the  woods  about  the  lake.  I  could  hear  five  at 
one  time,  thump,  thump,  thump,  thump,  thr-r-r- 
r-r-r-rr.  It  was  a  homely,  welcome  sound.  As  I 
returned  to  camp  at  twilight,  along  the  shore  of  the 
lake,  the  frogs  also  were  in  full  chorus.  The  older 
ones  ripped  out  their  responses  to  each  other  with 
terrific  force  and  volume.  I  know  of  no  other  ani- 
mal capable  of  giving  forth  so  much  sound,  in  pro- 
portion to  its  size,  as  a  frog.  Some  of  these  seemed 
to  bellow  as  loud  as  a  two-year-old  bull.  They 
were  of  immense  size,  and  very  abundant.  No 
frog-eater  had  ever  been  there.  Near  the  shore  we 
felled  a  tree  which  reached  far  out  in  the  lake. 
Upon  the  trunk  and  branches  the  frogs  had  soon 
collected  in  large  numbers,  and  gamboled  and 
splashed  about  the  half-submerged  top,  like  a  parcel 
of  schoolboys,  making  nearly  as  much  noise. 

After  dark,  as  I  was  frying  the  fish,  a  panful  of 
the  largest  trout  was  accidentally  capsized  in  the 
fire.  With  rueful  countenances  we  contemplated 
the  irreparable  loss  our  commissariat  had  sustained 
by  this  mishap;  but  remembering  there  was  virtue 
in  ashes,  we  poked  the  half-consumed  fish  from  the 
bed  of  coals  and  ate  them,  and  they  were  good. 


BIRCH  BROWSINGS  183 

We  lodged  that  night  on  a  brush-heap  and  slept 
soundly.  The  green,  yielding  beech-twigs,  covered 
with  a  buffalo  robe,  were  equal  to  a  hair  mattress. 
The  heat  and  smoke  from  a  large  fire  kindled  in  the 
afternoon  had  banished  every  "no-see-em"  from 
the  locality,  and  in  the  morning  the  sun  was  above 
the  mountain  before  we  awoke. 

I  immediately  started  again  for  the  inlet,  and 
went  far  up  the  stream  toward  its  source.  A  fair 
string  of  trout  for  breakfast  was  my  reward.  The 
cattle  with  the  bell  were  at  the  head  of  the  valley, 
where  they  had  passed  the  night.  Most  of  them 
were  two-year-old  steers.  They  came  up  to  me  and 
begged  for  salt,  and  scared  the  fish  by  their  impor- 
tunities. 

We  finished  our  bread  that  morning,  and  ate 
every  fish  we  could  catch,  and  about  ten  o'clock 
prepared  to  leave  the  lake.  The  weather  had  been 
admirable,  and  the  lake  was  a  gem,  and  I  would 
gladly  have  spent  a  week  in  the  neighborhood;  but 
the  question  of  supplies  was  a  serious  one,  and 
would  brook  no  delay. 

When  we  reached,  on  our  return,  the  point  where 
we  had  crossed  the  line  of  marked  trees  the  day 
before,  the  question  arose  whether  we  should  still 
trust  ourselves  to  this  line,  or  follow  our  own  trail 
back  to  the  spring  and  the  battlement  of  rocks  on 
the  top  of  the  mountain,  and  thence  to  the  rock 
where  the  guide  had  left  us.  We  decided  in  favor 
of  the  former  course.  After  a  march  of  three 
quarters  of  an  hour  the  blazed  trees  ceased,  and  we 


184  WAKE-ROBIN 

concluded  we  were  near  the  point  at  which  we  had 
parted  with  the  guide.  So  we  built  a  fire,  laid 
down  our  loads,  and  cast  about  on  all  sides  for  some 
clew  as  to  our  exact  locality.  Nearly  an  hour  was 
consumed  in  this  manner  and  without  any  result. 
I  came  upon  a  brood  of  young  grouse,  which  di- 
verted me  for  a  moment.  The  old  one  blustered 
about  at  a  furious  rate,  trying  to  draw  all  attention 
to  herself,  while  the  young  ones,  which  were  un- 
able to  fly,  hid  themselves.  She  whined  like  a  dog 
in  great  distress,  and  dragged  herself  along  appar- 
ently with  the  greatest  difficulty.  As  I  pursued 
her,  she  ran  very  nimbly,  and  presently  flew  a  few 
yards.  Then,  as  I  went  on,  she  flew  farther  and 
farther  each  time,  till  at  last  she  got  up,  and  went 
humming  through  the  woods  as  if  she  had  no  inter- 
est in  them.  I  went  back  and  caught  one  of  the 
young,  which  had  simply  squatted  close  to  the 
leaves.  I  took  it  up  and  set  it  on  the  palm  of  my 
hand,  which  it  hugged  as  closely  as  if  still  upon  the 
ground.  I  then  put  it  in  my  coatsleeve,  when  it 
ran  and  nestled  in  my  armpit. 

When  we  met  at  the  sign  of  the  smoke,  opinions 
differed  as  to  the  most  feasible  course.  There  was 
no  doubt  but  that  we  could  get  out  of  the  woods; 
but  we  wished  to  get  out  speedily,  and  as  near  as 
possible  to  the  point  where  we  had  entered.  Half 
ashamed  of  our  timidity  and  indecision,  we  finally 
tramped  away  back  to  where  we  had  crossed  the  line 
of  blazed  trees,  followed  our  old  trail  to  the  spring 
on  the  top  of  the  range,  and,  after  much  searching 


BIRCH   BROWSINGS  185 

and  scouring  to  the  right  and  left,  found  ourselves 
at  the  very  place  we  had  left  two  hours  before. 
Another  deliberation  and  a  divided  council.  But 
something  must  be  done.  It  was  then  mid-after- 
noon, and  the  prospect  of  spending  another  night 
on  the  mountains,  without  food  or  drink,  was  not 
pleasant.  So  we  moved  down  the  ridge.  Here 
another  line  of  marked  trees  was  found,  the  course 
of  which  formed  an  obtuse  angle  with  the  one  we 
had  followed.  It  kept  on  the  top  of  the  ridge  for 
perhaps  a  mile,  when  it  entirely  disappeared,  and 
we  were  as  much  adrift  as  ever.  Then  one  of  the 
party  swore  an  oath,  and  said  he  was  going  out  of 
those  woods,  hit  or  miss,  and,  wheeling  to  the  right, 
instantly  plunged  over  the  brink  of  the  mountain. 
The  rest  followed,  but  would  fain  have  paused  and 
ciphered  away  at  their  own  uncertainties,  to  see  if 
a  certainty  could  not  be  arrived  at  as  to  where  we 
would  come  out.  But  our  bold  leader  was  solving 
the  problem  in  the  right  way.  Down  and  down 
and  still  down  we  went,  as  if  we  were  to  bring  up 
in  the  bowels  of  the  earth.  It  was  by  far  the 
steepest  descent  we  had  made,  and  we  felt  a  grim 
satisfaction  in  knowing  that  we  could  not  retrace 
our  steps  this  time,  be  the  issue  what  it  might.  As 
we  paused  on  the  brink  of  a  ledge  of  rocks,  we 
chanced  to  see  through  the  trees  distant  cleared 
land.  A  house  or  barn  also  was  dimly  descried. 
This  was  encouraging;  but  we  could  not  make  out 
whether  it  was  on  Beaver  Kill  or  Mill  Brook  or 
Dry  Brook,  and  did  not  long  stop  to  consider  where 


186  WAKE-ROBIN 

it  was.  We  at  last  brought  up  at  the  bottom  of  a 
deep  gorge,  through  which  flowed  a  rapid  creek  that 
literally  swarmed  with  trout.  But  we  were  in  no 
mood  to  catch  them,  and  pushed  on  along  the  chan- 
nel of  the  stream,  sometimes  leaping  from  rock  to 
rock,  and  sometimes  splashing  heedlessly  through 
the  water,  and  speculating  the  while  as  to  where 
we  should  probably  come  out.  On  the  Beaver  Kill, 
my  companions  thought;  but,  from  the  position  of 
the  sun,  I  said,  on  the  Mill  Brook,  about  six  miles 
below  our  team;  for  I  remembered  having  seen,  in 
coming  up  this  stream,  a  deep,  wild  valley  that  led 
up  into  the  -mountains,  like  this  one.  Soon  the 
banks  of  the  stream  became  lower,  and  we  moved 
into  the  woods.  Here  we  entered  upon  an  obscure 
wood-road,  which  presently  conducted  us  into  the 
midst  of  a  vast  hemlock  forest.  The  land  had  a 
gentle  slope,  and  we  wondered  why  the  lumbermen 
and  barkmen  who  prowl  through  these  woods  had 
left  this  fine  tract  untouched.  Beyond  this  the 
forest  was  mostly  birch  and  maple. 

We  were  now  close  to  the  settlement,  and  began 
to  hear  human  sounds.  One  rod  more,  and  we 
were  out  of  the  woods.  It  took  us  a  moment  to 
comprehend  the  scene.  Things  looked  very  strange 
at  first;  but  quickly  they  began  to  change  and  to 
put  on  familiar  features.  Some  magic  scene-shift- 
ing seemed  to  take  place  before  my  eyes,  till,  in- 
stead of  the  unknown  settlement  which  I  at  first 
seemed  to  look  upon,  there  stood  the  farmhouse  at 
which  we  had  stopped  two  days  before,  and  at  the 


BIRCH   BROWSINGS  187 

same  moment  we  heard  the  stamping  of  our  team  in 
the  barn.  We  sat  down  and  laughed  heartily  over 
our  good  luck.  Our  desperate  venture  had  resulted 
better  than  we  had  dared  to  hope,  and  had  shamed 
our  wisest  plans.  At  the  house  our  arrival  had 
been  anticipated  about  this  time,  and  dinner  was 
being  put  upon  the  table. 

It  was  then  five  o'clock,  so  that  we  had  been  in 
the  woods  just  forty-eight  hours;  but  if  time  is  only 
phenomenal,  as  the  philosophers  say,  and  life  only 
in  feeling,  as  the  poets  aver,  we  were  some  months, 
if  not  years,  older  at  that  moment  than  we  had  been 
two  days  before.  Yet  younger,  too,  —  though  this 
be  a  paradox,  —  for  the  birches  had  infused  into  us 
some  of  their  own  suppleness  and  strength. 

1866. 


vn 

THE  BLUEBIED 

"TlfTHEN  Nature  made  the  bluebird  she  wished 
to  propitiate  both  the  sky  and  the  earth,  so 
she  gave  him  the  color  of  the  one  on  his  back  and 
the  hue  of  the  other  on  his  breast,  and  ordained 
that  his  appearance  in  spring  should  denote  that  the 
strife  and  war  between  these  two  elements  was  at 
an  end.  He  is  the  peace-harbinger;  in  him  the 
celestial  and  terrestrial  strike  hands  and  are  fast 
friends.  He  means  the  furrow  and  he  means  the 
warmth;  he  means  all  the  soft,  wooing  influences 
of  the  spring  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  retreating 
footsteps  of  winter  on  the  other. 

It  is  sure  to  be  a  bright  March  morning  when 
you  first  hear  his  note;  and  it  is  as  if  the  milder  in- 
fluences up  above  had  found  a  voice  and  let  a  word 
fall  upon  your  ear,  so  tender  is  it  and  so  prophetic, 
a  hope  tinged  with  a  regret. 

"Bermuda!  Bermuda!  Bermuda!"  he  seems 
to  say,  as  if  both  invoking  and  lamenting,  and, 
behold!  Bermuda  follows  close,  though  the  little 
pilgrim  may  be  only  repeating  the  tradition  of  his 
race,  himself  having  come  only  from  Florida,  the 
Carolinas,  or  even  from  Virginia,  where  he  haa 


190  WAKE-ROBIN 

found  his  Bermuda  on  some  broad  sunny  hillside 
thickly  studded  with  cedars  and  persimmon-trees. 

In  New  York  and  in  New  England  the  sap  starts 
up  in  the  sugar  maple  the  very  day  the  bluebird 
arrives,  and  sugar-making  begins  forthwith.  The 
bird  is  generally  a  mere  disembodied  voice;  a  rumor 
in  the  air  for  two  or  three  days  before  it  takes  visi- 
ble shape  before  you.  The  males  are  the  pioneers, 
and  come  several  days  in  advance  of  the  females. 
By  the  time  both  are  here  and  the  pair  have  begun 
to  prospect  for  a  place  to  nest,  sugar-making  is 
over,  the  last  vestige  of  snow  has  disappeared,  and 
the  plow  is  brightening  its  mould- board  in  the  new 
furrow. 

The  bluebird  enjoys  the  preeminence  of  being  the 
first  bit  of  color  that  cheers  our  northern  landscape. 
The  other  birds  that  arrive  about  the  same  time  — 
the  sparrow,  the  robin,  the  phoebe-bird  —  are  clad 
in  neutral  tints,  gray,  brown,  or  russet;  but  the 
bluebird  brings  one  of  the  primary  hues  and  the 
divinest  of  them  all. 

This  bird  also  has  the  distinction  of  answering 
very  nearly  to  the  robin  redbreast  of  English  mem- 
ory, and  was  by  the  early  settlers  of  New  England 
christened  the  blue  robin. 

It  is  a  size  or  two  larger,  and  the  ruddy  hue  of 
its  breast  does  not  verge  so  nearly  on  an  orange,  but 
the  manners  and  habits  of  the  two  birds  are  very 
much  alike.  Our  bird  has  the  softer  voice,  but 
the  English  redbreast  is  much  the  more  skilled 
musician.  He  has  indeed  a  fine,  animated  warble, 


THE   BLUEBIED  191 

heard  nearly  the  year  through  about  English  gar- 
dens and  along  the  old  hedge-rows,  that  is  quite 
beyond  the  compass  of  our  bird's  instrument.  On 
the  other  hand,  our  bird  is  associated  with  the 
spring  as  the  British  species  cannot  be,  being  a 
winter  resident  also,  while  the  brighter  sun  and  sky 
of  the  New  World  have  given  him  a  coat  that  far 
surpasses  that  of  his  transatlantic  cousin. 

It  is  worthy  of  remark  that  among  British  birds 
there  is  no  blue  bird.  The  cerulean  tint  seems 
much  rarer  among  the  feathered  tribes  there  than 
here.  On  this  continent  there  are  at  least  three 
species  of  the  common  bluebird,  while  in  all  our 
woods  there  is  the  blue  jay  and  the  indigo-bird,  — 
the  latter  so  intensely  blue  as  to  fully  justify  its 
name.  There  is  also  the  blue  grosbeak,  not  much 
behind  the  indigo-bird  in  intensity  of  color;  and 
among  our  warblers  the  blue  tint  is  very  common. 

It  is  interesting  to  know  that  the  bluebird  is  not 
confined  to  any  one  section  of  the  country ;  and  that 
when  one  goes  West  he  will  still  have  this  favorite 
with  him,  though  a  little  changed  in  voice  and 
color,  just  enough  to  give  variety  without  marring 
the  identity. 

The  Western  bluebird  is  considered  a  distinct  spe- 
cies, and  is  perhaps  a  little  more  brilliant  and  showy 
than  its  Eastern  brother;  and  Nuttall  thinks  its 
song  is  more  varied,  sweet,  and  tender.  Its  color 
approaches  to  ultramarine,  while  it  has  a  sash  of 
chestnut-red  across  its  shoulders,  —  all  the  effects,  I 
suspect,  of  that  wonderful  air  and  sky  of  California, 


192  WAKE-ROBIN 

and  of  those  great  Western  plains ;  or,  if  one  goes  a 
little  higher  up  into  the  mountainous  regions  of  the 
West,  he  finds  the  Arctic  bluehird,  the  ruddy  hrown 
on  the  breast  changed  to  greenish  blue,  and  the 
wings  longer  and  more  pointed;  in  other  respects 
not  differing  much  from  our  species. 

The  bluebird  usually  builds  its  nest  in  a  hole  in 
a  stump  or  stub,  or  in  an  old  cavity  excavated  by  a 
woodpecker,  when  such  can  be  had;  but  its  first 
impulse  seems  to  be  to  start  in  the  world  in  much 
more  style,  and  the  happy  pair  make  a  great  show 
of  house-hunting  about  the  farm  buildings,  now  half 
persuaded  to  appropriate  a  dove-cote,  then  discussing 
in  a  lively  manner  a  last  year's  swallow's  nest,  or 
proclaiming  with  much  flourish  and  flutter  that  they 
have  taken  the  wren's  house,  or  the  tenement  of 
the  purple  martin;  till  finally  nature  becomes  too 
urgent,  when  all  this  pretty  make-believe  ceases, 
and  most  of  them  settle  back  upon  the  old  family 
stumps  and  knotholes  in  remote  fields,  and  go  to 
work  in  earnest. 

In  such  situations  the  female  is  easily  captured 
by  approaching  very  stealthily  and  covering  the 
entrance  to  the  nest.  The  bird  seldom  makes  any 
effort  to  escape,  seeing  how  hopeless  the  case  is, 
and  keeps  her  place  on  the  nest  till  she  feels  your 
hand  closing  around  her.  I  have  looked  down  into 
the  cavity  and  seen  the  poor  thing  palpitating  with 
fear  and  looking  up  with  distended  eyes,  but  never 
moving  till  I  had  withdrawn  a  few  paces;  then  she 
rushes  out  with  a  cry  that  brings  the  male  on  the 


THE   BLUEBIRD  193 

scene  in  a  hurry.  He  warbles  and  lifts  his  wings 
beseechingly,  but  shows  no  anger  or  disposition  to 
scold  and  complain  like  most  birds.  Indeed,  this 
bird  seems  incapable  of  uttering  a  harsh  note,  or  of 
doing  a  spiteful,  ill-tempered  thing. 

The  ground-builders  all  have  some  art  or  device 
to  decoy  one  away  from  the  nest,  affecting  lameness, 
a  crippled  wing,  or  a  broken  back,  promising  an 
easy  capture  if  pursued.  The  tree-builders  depend 
upon  concealing  the  nest  or  placing  it  beyond  reach. 
But  the  bluebird  has  no  art  either  way,  and  its  nest 
is  easily  found. 

About  the  only  enemies  the  sitting  bird  or  the 
nest  is  in  danger  of  are  snakes  and  squirrels.  I 
knew  of  a  farm-boy  who  was  in  the  habit  of  putting 
his  hand  down  into  a  bluebird's  nest  and  taking  out 
the  old  bird  whenever  he  came  that  way.  One  day 
he  put  his  hand  in,  and,  feeling  something  peculiar, 
withdrew  it  hastily,  when  it  was  instantly  followed 
by  the  head  and  neck  of  an  enormous  black  snake. 
The  boy  took  to  his  heels  and  the  snake  gave  chase, 
pressing  him  close  till  a  plowman  near  by  came  to 
the  rescue  with  his  ox- whip. 

There  never  was  a  happier  or  more  devoted  hus- 
band than  the  male  bluebird  is.  But  among  nearly 
all  our  familiar  birds  the  serious  cares  of  life  seem 
to  devolve  almost  entirely  upon  the  female.  The 
male  is  hilarious  and  demonstrative,  the  female 
serious  and  anxious  about  her  charge.  The  male  is 
the  attendant  of  the  female,  following  her  wherever 
she  goes.  He  never  leads,  never  directs,  but  only 


194  WAKE-ROBIN 

seconds  and  applauds.  If  his  life  is  all  poetry  and 
romance,  hers  is  all  business  and  prose.  She  has 
no  pleasure  but  her  duty,  and  no  duty  but  to  look 
after  her  nest  and  brood.  f  She  shows  no  affection 
for  the  male,  no  pleasure  in  his  society;  she  only 
tolerates  him  as  a  necessary  evil,  and,  if  he  is 
killed,  goes  in  quest  of  another  in  the  most  busi- 
ness-like manner,  as  you  would  go  for  the  plumber 
or  the  glazier.  In  most  cases  the  male  is  the  or- 
namental partner  in  the  firm,  and  contributes  little 
of  the  working  capital.  There  seems  to  be  more 
equality  of  the  sexes  among  the  woodpeckers,  wrens, 
and  swallows;  while  the  contrast  is  greatest,  per- 
haps, in  the  bobolink  family,  where  the  courting  is 
done  in  the  Arab  fashion,  the  female  fleeing  with  all 
her  speed  and  the  male  pursuing  with  equal  precipi- 
tation ;  and  were  it  not  for  the  broods  of  young  birds 
that  appear,  it  would  be  hard  to  believe  that  the  in- 
tercourse ever  ripened  into  anything  more  intimate. 
With  the  bluebirds  the  male  is  useful  as  well  as 
ornamental.  He  is  the  gay  champion  and  escort  of 
the  female  at  all  times,  and  while  she  is  sitting  he 
feeds  her  regularly.  It  is  very  pretty  to  watch 
them  building  their  nest.  The  male  is  very  active 
in  hunting  out  a  place  and  exploring  the  boxes  and 
cavities,  but  seems  to  have  no  choice  in  the  matter 
and  is  anxious  only  to  please  and  encourage  his 
mate,  who  has  the  practical  turn  and  knows  what 
will  do  and  what  will  not.  After  she  has  suited 
herself  he  applauds  her  immensely,  and  away  the 
two  go  in  quest  of  material  for  the  nest,  the  male 


THE   BLUEBIRD  195 

acting  as  guard  and  flying  above  and  in  advance  of 
the  female.  She  brings  all  the  material  and  does 
all  the  work  of  building,  he  looking  on  and  encour- 
aging her  with  gesture  and  song.  He  acts  also  as 
inspector  of  her  work,  but  I  fear  is  a  very  partial 
one.  She  enters  the  nest  with  her  bit  of  dry  grass 
or  straw,  and,  having  adjusted  it  to  her  notion,  with- 
draws and  waits  near  by  while  he  goes  in  and  looks 
it  over.  On  coming  out  he  exclaims  very  plainly, 
"Excellent!  excellent!"  and  away  the  two  go 
again  for  more  material. 

The  bluebirds,  when  they  build  about  the  farm 
buildings,  sometimes  come  in  conflict  with  the  swal- 
lows. The  past  season  I  knew  a  pair  to  take  forci- 
ble possession  of  the  domicile  of  a  pair  of  the  latter, 
—  the  cliff  species  that  now  stick  their  nests  under 
the  eaves  of  the  barn.  The  bluebirds  had  been 
broken  up  in  a  little  bird-house  near  by,  by  the  rats 
or  perhaps  a  weasel,. and  being  no  doubt  in  a  bad 
humor,  and  the  season  being  well  advanced,  they 
made  forcible  entrance  into  the  adobe  tenement  of 
their  neighbors,  and  held  possession  of  it  for  some 
days,  but  I  believe  finally  withdrew,  rather  than 
live  amid  such  a  squeaky,  noisy  colony.  I  have 
heard  that  these  swallows,  when  ejected  from  their 
homes  in  that  way  by  the  phoebe-bird,  have  been 
known  to  fall  to  and  mason  up  the  entrance  to  the 
nest  while  their  enemy  was  inside  of  it,  thus  having 
a  revenge  as  complete  and  cruel  as  anything  in 
human  annals. 

The  bluebirds  and  the   house  wrens   more  fre- 


196  WAKE-EOBIN 

quently  come  into  collision.  A  few  years  .ago  I 
put  up  a  little  bird-house  in  the  back  end  of  my 
garden  for  the  accommodation  of  the  wrens,  and 
every  season  a  pair  have  taken  up  their  abode  there. 
One  spring  a  pair  of  bluebirds  looked  into  the  tene- 
ment and  lingered  about  several  days,  leading  me 
to  hope  that  they  would  conclude  to  occupy  it. 
But  they  finally  went  away,  and  later  in  the  season 
the  wrens  appeared,  and,  after  a  little  coquetting, 
were  regularly  installed  in  their  old  quarters  and 
were  as  happy  as  only  wrens  can  be. 

One  of  our  younger  poets,  Myron  Benton,  saw  a 
little  bird 

"Ruffled  with  whirlwind  of  his  ecstasies," 

which  must  have  been  the  wren,  as  I  know  of  no 
other  bird  that  so  throbs  and  palpitates  with  music 
as  this  little  vagabond.  And  the  pair  I  speak  of 
seemed  exceptionably  happy,  and  the  male  had  a 
small  tornado  of  song  in  his  crop  that  kept  him 
"ruffled"  every  moment  in  the  day.  But  before 
their  honeymoon  was  over  the  bluebirds  returned. 
I  knew  something  was  wrong  before  I  was  up  in 
the  morning.  Instead  of  that  voluble  and  gushing 
song  outside  the  window,  I  heard  the  wrens  scold- 
ing and  crying  at  a  fearful  rate,  and  on  going  out 
saw  the  bluebirds  in  possession  of  the  box.  The 
poor  wrens  were  in  despair ;  they  wrung  their  hands 
and  tore  their  hair,  after  the  wren  fashion,  but 
chiefly  did  they  rattle  out  their  disgust  and  wrath 
at  the  intruders.  I  have  no  doubt  that,  if  it  could 


THE  BLUEBIRD  197 

have  been  interpreted,  it  would  have  proven  the 
rankest-  and  most  voluble  Billingsgate  ever  uttered. 
For  the  wren  is  saucy,  and  he  has  a  tongue  in  his 
head  that  can  outwag  any  other  tongue  known  to  me. 

The  bluebirds  said  nothing,  but  the  male  kept  an 
eye  on  Mr.  Wren;  and,  when  he  came  too  near, 
gave  chase,  driving  him  to  cover  under  the  fence, 
or  under  a  rubbish-heap  or  other  objeet,  where  the 
wren  would  scold  and  rattle  away,  while  his  pursuer 
sat  on  the  fence  or  the  pea-brush  waiting  for  him  to 
reappear. 

Days  passed,  and  the  usurpers  prospered  and  the 
outcasts  were  wretched;  but  the  latter  lingered 
about,  watching  and  abusing  their  enemies,  and 
hoping,  no  doubt,  that  things  would  take  a  turn, 
as  they  presently  did.  The  outraged  wrens  were 
fully  avenged.  The  mother  bluebird  had  laid  her 
full  complement  of  eggs  and  was  beginning  to  set, 
when  one  day,  as  her  mate  was  perched  above  her 
on  the  barn,  along  came  a  boy  with  one  of  those 
wicked  elastic  slings  and  cut  him  down  with  a  peb- 
ble. There  he  lay  like  a  bit  of  sky  fallen  upon  the 
grass.  The  widowed  bird  seemed  to  understand 
what  had  happened,  and  without  much  ado  disap- 
peared next  day  in  quest  of  another  mate.  How- 
she  contrived  to  make  her  wants  known,  without 
trumpeting  them  about,  I  am  unable  to  say.  But  I 
presume  the  birds  have  a  way  of  advertising  that 
answers  the  purpose  well.  Maybe  she  trusted  to 
luck  to  fall  in  with  some  stray  bachelor  or  bereaved 
male  who  would  undertake  to  console  a  widow  of 


198  WAKE-KOBIN 

one  day's  standing.  I  will  say,  in  passing,  that 
there  are  no  bachelors  from  choice  among  the  birds; 
they  are  all  rejected  suitors,  while  old  maids  are 
entirely  unknown.  There  is  a  Jack  to  every  Jill; 
and  some  to  boot. 

The  males,  being  more  exposed  by  their  song  and 
plumage,  and  by  being  the  pioneers  in  migrating, 
seem  to  be  slightly  in  excess  lest  the  supply  fall 
short,  and  hence  it  sometimes  happens  that  a  few 
are  bachelors  perforce;  there  are  not  females  enough 
to  go  around,  but  before  the  season  is  over  there  are 
sure  to  be  some  vacancies  in  the  marital  ranks, 
which  they  are  called  on  to  fill. 

In  the  mean  time  the  wrens  were  beside  them- 
selves with  delight;  they  fairly  screamed  with  joy. 
If  the  male  was  before  "ruffled  with  whirlwind  of 
his  ecstasies,"  he  was  now  in  danger  of  being  rent 
asunder.  He  inflated  his  throat  and  caroled  as 
wren  never  caroled  before.  And  the  female,  too, 
how  she  cackled  and  darted  about!  How  busy  they 
both  were!  Eushing  into  the  nest,  they  hustled 
those  eggs  out  in  less  than  a  minute,  wren  time. 
They  carried  in  new  material,  and  by  the  third  day 
were  fairly  installed  again  in  their  old  quarters;  but 
on  the  third  day,  so  rapidly  are  these  little  dramas 
played,  the  female  bluebird  reappeared  with  another 
mate.  Ah!  how  the  wren  stock  went  down  then! 
What  dismay  and  despair  filled  again  those  little 
breasts!  It  was  pitiful.  They  did  not  scold  as 
before,  but  after  a  day  or  two  withdrew  from  the  gar- 
den, dumb  with  grief,  and  gave  up  the  struggle. 


THE   BLUEBIRD  199 

The  bluebird,  finding  her  eggs  gone  and  her  nest 
changed,  seemed  suddenly  seized  with  alarm  and 
shunned  the  box;  or  else,  finding  she  had  less  need 
for  another  husband  than  she  thought,  repented  her 
rashness  and  wanted  to  dissolve  the  compact.  But 
the  happy  bridegroom  would  not  take  the  hint,  and 
exerted  all  his  eloquence  to  comfort  and  reassure 
her.  He  was  fresh  and  fond,  and  until  this  be- 
reaved female  found  him  I  am  sure  his  suit  had  not 
prospered  that  season.  He  thought  the  box  just 
the  thing,  and  that  there  was  no  need  of  alarm,  and 
-spent  days  in  trying  to  persuade  the  female  back. 
Seeing  he  could  not  be  a  stepfather  to  a  family,  he 
was  quite  willing  to  assume  a  nearer  relation.  He 
hovered  about  the  box,  he  went  in  and  out,  he 
called,  he  warbled,  he  entreated;  the  female  would 
respond  occasionally  and  come  and  alight  near,  and 
even  peep  into  the  nest,  but  would  not  enter  it,  and 
quickly  flew  away  again.  Her  mate  would  reluc- 
tantly follow,  but  he  was  soon  back,  uttering  the 
most  confident  and  cheering  calls.  If  she  did  not 
come  he  would  perch  above  the  nest  and  sound  his 
loudest  notes  over  and  over  again,  looking  in  the 
direction  of  his  mate  and  beckoning  with  every 
motion.  But  she  responded  less  and  less  frequently. 
Some  days  I  would  see  him  only,  but  finally  he  gave 
it  up;  the  pair  disappeared,  and  the  box  remained 
deserted  the  rest  of  the  summer. 

1867. 


vni 

THE  INVITATION 

"VT'EABS  ago,  when  quite  a  youth,  I  was  ram- 
-*-  bling  in  the  woods  one  Sunday,  with  my 
brothers,  gathering  black  birch,  wintergreens,  etc., 
when,  as  we  reclined  upon  the  ground,  gazing 
vaguely  up  into  the  trees,  I  caught  sight  of  a  bird, 
that  paused  a  moment  on  a  branch  above  .me,  the 
like  of  which  I  had  never  before  seen  or  heard  of. 
It  was  probably  the  blue  yellow- backed  warbler,  as 
I  have  since  found  this  to  be  a  common  bird  in 
those  woods;  but  to  my  young  fancy  it  seemed  like 
some  fairy  bird,  so  curiously  marked  was  it,  and  so 
new  and  unexpected.  I  saw  it  a  moment  as  the 
flickering  leaves  parted,  noted  the  white  spot  on  its 
wing,  and  it  was  gone.  How  the  thought  of  it 
clung  to  me  afterward!  It  was  a  revelation.  It 
was  the  first  intimation  I  had  had  that  the  woods 
we  knew  so  well  held  birds  that  we  knew  not  at  all. 
Were  our  eyes  and  ears  so  dull,  then  ?  There  was 
the  robin,  the  blue  jay,  the  bluebird,  the  yellow- 
bird,  the  cherry-bird,  the  catbird,  the  chipping- 
bird,  the  woodpecker,  the  high-hole,  an  occasional 
redbird,  and  a  few  others,  in  the  woods  or  along 
their  borders,  but  who  ever  dreamed  that  there  were 


202  WAKE-ROBIN 

still  others  that  not  even  the  hunters  saw,  and 
whose  names  no  one  had  ever  heard  ? 

When,  one  summer  day,  later  in  life,  I  took  my 
gun  and  went  to  the  woods  again,  in  a  different 
though  perhaps  a  less  simple  spirit,  I  found  my 
youthful  vision  more  than  realized.  There  were, 
indeed,  other  birds,  plenty  of  them,  singing,  nest- 
ing, breeding,  among  the  familiar  trees,  which  I 
had  before  passed  by  unheard  and  unseen. 

It  is  a  surprise  that  awaits  every  student  of  orni- 
thology, and  the  thrill  of  delight  that  accompanies 
it,  and  the  feeling  of  fresh,  eager  inquiry  that  fol- 
lows, can  hardly  be  awakened  by  any  other  pursuit. 
Take  the  first  step  in  ornithology,  procure  one  new 
specimen,  and  you  are  ticketed  for  the  whole  voy- 
age. There  is  a  fascination  about  it  quite  overpow- 
ering. It  fits  so  well  with  other  things,  —  with 
fishing,  hunting,  farming,  walking,  camping-out,  — 
with  all  that  takes  one  to  the  fields  and  woods. 
One  may  go  a  blackberrying  and  make  some  rare  dis- 
covery; or,  while  driving  his  cow  to  pasture,  hear  a 
new  song,  or  make  a  new  observation.  Secrets  lurk 
on  all  sides.  There  is  news  in  every  bush.  Ex- 
pectation is  ever  on  tiptoe.  What  no  man  ever 
saw  before  may  the  next  moment  be  revealed  to 
you.  What  a  new  interest  the  woods  have !  How 
you  long  to  explore  every  nook  and  corner  of  them ! 
You  would  even  find  consolation  in  being  lost  in 
them.  You  could  then  hear  the  night  birds  and 
the  owls,  and,  in  your  wanderings,  might  stumble 
upon  some  unknown  specimen. 


THE   INVITATION  203 

In  all  excursions  to  the  woods  or  to  the  shore, 
the  student  of  ornithology  has  an  advantage  over 
his  companions.  He  has  one  more  resource,  one 
more  avenue  of  delight.  He,  indeed,  kills  two 
birds  with  one  stone  and  sometimes  three.  If 
others  wander,  he  can  never  go  out  of  his  way. 
His  game  is  everywhere.  The  cawing  of  a  crow 
makes  him  feel  at  home,  while  a  new  note  or  a  new 
song  drowns  all  care.  Audubon,  on  the  desolate 
coast  of  Labrador,  is  happier  than  any  king  ever 
was;  and  on  shipboard  is  nearly  cured  of  his  sea- 
sickness when  a  new  gull  appears  in  sight. 

One  must  taste  it  to  understand  or  appreciate  its 
fascination.  The  looker-on  sees  nothing  to  inspire 
such  enthusiasm.  Only  a  little  feathers  and  a  half- 
musical  note  or  two;  why  all  this  ado?  "Who 
would  give  a  hundred  and  twenty  dollars  to  know 
about  the  birds  1 "  said  an  Eastern  governor,  half 
contemptuously,  to  Wilson,  as  the  latter  solicited 
a  subscription  to  his  great  work.  Sure  enough. 
Bought  knowledge  is  dear  at  any  price.  The  most 
precious  things  have  no  commercial  value.  It  is 
not,  your  Excellency,  mere  technical  knowledge  of 
the  birds  that  you  are  asked  to  purchase,  but  a  new 
interest  in  the  fields  and  woods,  a  new  moral  and 
intellectual  tonic,  a  new  key  to  the  treasure-house 
of  nature.  Think  of  the  many  other  things  your 
Excellency  would  get,  —  the  air,  the  sunshine,  the 
healing  fragrance  and  coolness,  and  the  many  re- 
spites from  the  knavery  and  turmoil  of  political 
life. 


204  WAKE-ROBIN 

Yesterday  was  an  October  day  of  rare  brightness 
and  warmth.  I  spent  the  most  of  it^in  a  wild, 
wooded  gorge  of  Rock  Creek.  A  persimmon-tree 
which  stood  upon  the  bank  had  dropped  some  of  its 
fruit  in  the  water.  As  I  stood  there,  half-leg  deep, 
picking  them  up,  a  wood  duck  came  flying  down 
the  creek  and  passed  over  my  head.  Presently  it 
returned,  flying  up;  then  it  came  back  again,  and, 
sweeping  low  around  a  bend,  prepared  to  alight  in 
a  still,  dark  reach  in  the  creek  which  was  hidden 
from  my  view.  As  I  passed  that  way  about  half 
an  hour  afterward,  the  duck  started  up,  uttering  its 
wild  alarm  note.  In  the  stillness  I  could  hear  the 
whistle  of  its  wings  and  the  splash  of  the  water 
when  it  took  flight.  Near  by  I  saw  where  a  rac- 
coon had  come  down  to  the  water  for  fresh  clams, 
leaving  his  long,  sharp  track  in  the  mud  and  sand. 
Before  I  had  passed  this  hidden  stretch  of  water,  a 
pair  of  those  mysterious  thrushes,  the  gray-cheeked, 
flew  up  from  the  ground  and  perched  on  a  low 
branch. 

Who  can  tell  how  much  this  duck,  this  footprint 
in  the  sand,  and  these  strange  thrushes  from  the 
far  north,  enhanced  the  interest  and  charm  of  the 
autumn  woods  ? 

Ornithology  cannot  be  satisfactorily  learned  from 
the  books.  The  satisfaction  is  in  learning  it  from 
nature.  One  must  have  an  original  experience  with 
the  birds.  The  books  are  only  the  guide,  the  invi- 
tation. Though  there  remain  not  another  new  spe- 
cies to  describe,  any  young  person  with  health  and 


THE  INVITATION  205 

enthusiasm  has  open  to  him  or  her  the  whole  field 
anew,  and  is  eligible  to  experience  all  the  thrill  and 
delight  of  original  discoverers. 

But  let  me  say,  in  the  same  breath,  that  the 
books  can  by  no  manner  of  means  be  dispensed 
with.  A  copy  of  Wilson  or  Audubon,  for  refer- 
ence and  to  compare  notes  with,  is  invaluable.  In 
lieu  of  these,  access  to  some  large  museum  or  col- 
lection would  be  a  great  help.  In  the  beginning, 
one  finds  it  very  difficult  to  identify  a  bird  from 
any  verbal  description.  Reference  to  a  colored 
plate,  or  to  a  stuffed  specimen,  at  once  settles  the 
matter.  This  is  the  chief  value  of  the  books;  they 
are  charts  to  sail  by;  the  route  is  mapped  out,  and 
much  time  and  labor  thereby  saved.  First  find 
your  bird;  observe  its  ways,  its  song,  its  calls,  its 
flight,  its  haunts;  then  shoot  it  (not  ogle  it  with  a 
glass),  and  compare  with  Audubon.  In  this  way 
the  feathered  kingdom  may  soon  be  conquered. 

The  ornithologists  divide  and  subdivide  the  birds 
into  a  great  many  orders,  families,  genera,  species, 
etc.,  which,  at  first  sight,  are  apt  to  confuse  and 
discourage  the  reader.  But  any  interested  person 
can  acquaint  himself  with  most  of  our  song-birds 
by  keeping  in  mind  a  few  general  divisions,  and 
observing  the  characteristics  of  each.  By  far  the 
greater  number  of  our  land- birds  are  either  warblers, 
vireos,  flycatchers,  thrushes,  or  finches. 

The  warblers  are,  perhaps,  the  most  puzzling. 
These  are  the  true  Sylvia,  the  real  wood-birds. 
They  are  small,  very  active,  but  feeble  songsters, 


206  WAKE-ROBIN 

and,  to  be  seen,  must  be  sought  for.  In  passing 
through  the  woods,  most  persons  have  a  vague  con- 
sciousness of  slight  chirping,  semi-musical  sounds 
in  the  trees  overhead.  In  most  cases  these  sounds 
proceed  from  the  warblers.  Throughout  the  Middle 
and  Eastern  States,  half  a  dozen  species  or  so  may 
be  found  in  almost  every  locality,  as  the  redstart, 
the  Maryland  yellow-throat,  the  yellow  warbler 
(not  the  common  goldfinch,  with  black  cap,  and 
black  wings  and  tail),  the  hooded  warbler,  the  black 
and  white  creeping  warbler;  or  others,  according  to 
the  locality  and  the  character  of  the  woods.  In 
pine  or  hemlock  woods,  one  species  may  predomi- 
nate; in  maple  or  oak  woods,  or  in  mountainous 
districts,  another.  The  subdivision  of  ground  war- 
blers, the  most  common  members  of  which  are  the 
Maryland  yellow-throat,  the  Kentucky  warbler,  and 
the  mourning  ground  warbler,  are  usually  found  in 
low,  wet,  bushy,  or  half-open  woods,  often  on  and 
always  near  the  ground.  The  summer  yellowbird, 
or  yellow  warbler,  is  not  now  a  wood- bird  at  all, 
being  found  in  orchards  and  parks,  and  along  streams 
and  in  the  trees  of  villages  and  cities. 

As  we  go  north  the  number  of  warblers  increases, 
till,  in  the  northern  part  of  New  England,  and  in 
the  Canadas,  as  many  as  ten  or  twelve  varieties 
may  be  found  breeding  in  June.  Audubon  found 
the  black-poll  warbler  breeding  in  Labrador,  and 
congratulates  himself  on  being  the  first  white  man 
who  had  ever  seen  its  nest.  When  these  warblers 
pass  north  in  May,  they  seem  to  go  singly  or  in 


THE  INVITATION  207 

pairs,  and  their  black  caps  and  striped  coats  show 
conspicuously.  When  they  return  in  September 
they  are  in  troops  or  loose  flocks,  are  of  a  uniform 
dull  drab  or  brindlish  color,  and  are  very  fat.  They 
scour  the  treetops  for  a  few  days,  almost  eluding 
the  eye  by  their  quick  movements,  and  are  gone. 

According  to  my  own  observation,  the  number  of 
species  of  warblers  which  one  living  in  the  middle 
districts  sees,  on  their  return  in  the  fall,  is  very 
small  compared  with  the  number  he  may  observe 
migrating  north  in  the  spring. 

The  yellow-rumped  warblers  are  the  most  notice- 
able of  all  in  the  autumn.  They  come  about  the 
streets  and  garden,  and  seem  especially  drawn  to 
dry,  leafless  trees.  They  dart  spitefully  about, 
uttering  a  sharp  chirp.  In  Washington  I  have  seen 
them  in  the  outskirts  all  winter. 

Audubon  figures  and  describes  over  forty  differ- 
ent warblers.  More  recent  writers  have  divided 
and  subdivided  the  group  very  much,  giving  new 
names  to  new  classifications.  But  this  part  is  of 
interest  and  value  only  to  the  professional  orni- 
thologist. 

The  finest  songster  among  the  Sylvia,  according 
to  my  notions,  is  the  black-throated  greenback. 
Its  song  is  sweet  and  clear,  but  brief. 

The  rarest  of  the  species  are  Swainson's  warbler, 
said  to  be  disappearing ;  the  cerulean  warbler,  said 
to  be  abundant  about  Niagara;  and  the  mourning 
ground  warbler,  which  I  have  found  breeding  about 
the  head- waters  of  the  Delaware,  in  New  York. 


208  WAKE-ROBIN 

The  vireos,  or  greenlets,  are  a  sort  of  connecting 
link  between  the  warblers  and  the  true  flycatchers, 
and  partake  of  the  characteristics  of  both. 

The  red-eyed  vireo,  whose  sweet  soliloquy  is  one 
of  the  most  constant  and  cheerful  sounds  in  our 
woods  and  groves,  is  perhaps  the  most  noticeable 
and  abundant  species.  The  vireos  are  a  little  larger 
than  the  warblers,  and  are  far  less  brilliant  and 
variegated  in  color. 

There  are  five  species  found  in  most  of  our  woods, 
namely,  the  red-eyed  vireo,  the  white-eyed  vireo, 
the  warbling  vireo,  the  yellow-throated  vireo,  and 
the  solitary  vireo,  —  the  red-eyed  and  warbling  be- 
ing most  abundant,  and  the  white- eyed  being  the 
most  lively  and  animated  songster.  I  meet  the  lat- 
ter bird  only  in  the  thick,  bushy  growths  of  low, 
swampy  localities,  where,  eluding  the  observer,  it 
pours  forth  its  song  with  a  sharpness  and  a  rapidity 
of  articulation  that  are  truly  astonishing.  This 
strain  is  very  marked,  and,  though  inlaid  with  the 
notes  of  several  other  birds,  is  entirely  unique.  The 
iris  of  this  bird  is  white,  as  that  of  the  red-eyed  is 
red,  though  in  neither  case  can  this  mark  be  distin- 
guished at  more  than  two  or  three  yards.  In  most 
cases  the  iris  of  birds  is  a  dark  hazel,  which  passes 
for  black. 

The  basket-like  nest,  pendent  to  the  low  branches 
in  the  woods,  which  the  falling  leaves  of  autumn 
reveal  to  all  passers,  is,  in  most  cases,  the  nest  of 
the  red-eyed,  though  the  solitary  constructs  a  simi- 
lar tenement,  but  in  much  more  remote  and  secluded 
localities. 


THE   INVITATION  209 

Most  birds  exhibit  great  alarm  and  distress,  usually 
with  a  strong  dash  of  anger,  when  you  approach 
their  nests;  but  the  demeanor  of  the  red-eyed,  on 
such  an  occasion,  is  an  exception  to  this  rule.  The 
parent  birds  move  about  softly  amid  the  branches 
above,  eying  the  intruder  with  a  curious,  innocent 
look,  uttering,  now  and  then,  a  subdued  note  or 
plaint,  solicitous  and  watchful,  but  making  no  dem- 
onstration of  anger  or  distress. 

The  birds,  no  more  than  the  animals,  like  to  be 
caught  napping;  but  I  remember,  one  autumn  day, 
of  coming  upon  a  red-eyed  vireo  that  was  clearly 
oblivious  to  all  that  was  passing  around  it.  It  was 
a  young  bird,  though  full  grown,  and  it  was  taking 
its  siesta  on  a  low  branch  in  a  remote  heathery 
field.  Its  head  was  snugly  stowed  away  under  its 
wing,  and  it  would  have  fallen  an  easy  prey  to  the 
first  hawk  that  came  along.  I  approached  noise- 
lessly, and  when  within  a  few  feet  of  it  paused  to 
note  its  breathings,  so  much  more  rapid  and  full 
than  our  own.  A  bird  has  greater  lung  capacity 
than  any  other  living  thing,  hence  more  animal 
heat,  and  life  at  a  higher  pressure.  When  I  reached 
out  my  hand  and  carefully  closed  it  around  the 
winged  sleeper,  its  sudden  terror  and  consternation 
almost  paralyzed  it.  Then  it  struggled  and  cried 
piteously,  and  when  released  hastened  and  hid  itself 
in  some  near  bushes.  I  never  expected  to  surprise 
it  thus  a  second  time. 

The  flycatchers  are  a  larger  group  than  the  vireos, 
with  stronger-marked  characteristics.  They  are  not 


210  WAKE-ROBIN 

properly  songsters,  but  are  classed  by  some  writers 
as  screechers.  Their  pugnacious  dispositions  are 
well  known,  and  they  not  only  fight  among  them- 
selves but  are  incessantly  quarreling  with  their 
neighbors.  The  kingbird,  or  tyrant  flycatcher, 
might  serve  as  the  type  of  the  order. 

The  common  or  wood  pewee  excites  the  most 
pleasant  emotions,  both  on  account  of  its  plaintive 
note  and  its  exquisite  mossy  nest. 

The  phoebe-bird  is  the  pioneer  of  the  flycatchers, 
and  comes  in  April,  sometimes  in  March.  It  comes 
familiarly  about  the  house  and  outbuildings,  and 
usually  builds  beneath  hay-sheds  or  under  bridges. 

The  flycatchers  always  take  their  insect  prey  on 
the  wing,  by  a  sudden  darting  or  swooping  move- 
ment; often  a  very  audible  snap  of  the  beak  may 
be  heard. 

These  birds  are  the  least  elegant,  both  in  form 
and  color,  of  any  of  our  feathered  neighbors.  They 
have  short  legs,  a  short  neck,  large  heads,  and 
broad,  flat  beaks,  with  bristles  at  the  base.  They 
often  fly  with  a  peculiar  quivering  movement  of 
the  wings,  and  when  at  rest  some  of  the  species 
oscillate  their  tails  at  short  intervals. 

There  are  found  in  the  United  States  nineteen 
species.  In  the  Middle  and  Eastern  districts,  one 
may  observe  in  summer,  without  any  special  search, 
about  five  of  them,  namely,  the  kingbird,  the 
phoebe-bird,  the  wood  pewee,  the  great  crested  fly- 
catcher (distinguished  from  all  others  by  the  bright 
ferruginous  color  of  its  tail),  and  the  small  green- 
crested  flycatcher. 


THE   INVITATION  211 

The  thrushes  are  the  birds  of  real  melody,  and 
will  afford  one  more  delight  perhaps  than  any  other 
class.  The  robin  is  the  most  familiar  example. 
Their  manners,  flight,  and  form  are  the  same  in 
each  species.  See  the  robin  hop  along  upon  the 
ground,  strike  an  attitude,  scratch  for  a  worm,  fix 
his  eye  upon  something  before  him  or  upon  the 
beholder,  flip  his  wings  suspiciously,  fly  straight  to 
his  perch,  or  sit  at  sundown  on  some  high  branch 
caroling  his  sweet  and  honest  strain,  and  you  have 
seen  what  is  characteristic  of  all  the  thrushes. 
Their  carriage  is  preeminently  marked  by  grace, 
and  their  songs  by  melody. 

Beside  the  robin,  which  is  in  no  sense  a  wood- 
bird,  we  have  in  New  York  the  wood  thrush,  the 
hermit  thrush,  the  veery,  or  Wilson's  thrush,  the 
olive-backed  thrush,  and,  transiently,  one  or  two 
other  species  not  so  clearly  defined. 

The  wood  thrush  and  the  hermit  stand  at  the 
head  as  songsters,  no  two  persons,  perhaps,  agree- 
ing as  to  which  is  the  superior. 

Under  the  general  head  of  finches,  Audubon  de- 
scribes over  sixty  different  birds,  ranging  from  the 
sparrows  to  the  grosbeaks,  and  including  the  bunt- 
ings, the  linnets,  the  snowbirds,  the  crossbills,  and 
the  redbirds. 

We  have  nearly  or  quite  a  dozen  varieties  of  the 
sparrow  in  the  Atlantic  States,  but  perhaps  no  more 
than  half  that  number  would  be  discriminated  by 
the  unprofessional  observer.  The  song  sparrow, 
which  every  child  knows,  comes  first;  at  least,  his 


212  WAKE-ROBIN 

voice  is  first  heard.  And  can  there  be  anything 
more  fresh  and  pleasing  than  this  first  simple  strain 
heard  from  the  garden  fence  or  a  near  hedge,  on 
some  bright,  still  March  morning? 

The  field  or  vesper  sparrow,  called  also  grass 
finch  and  bay-winged  sparrow,  a  bird  slightly 
larger  than  the  song  sparrow  and  of  a  lighter  gray 
color,  is  abundant  in  all  our  upland  fields  and  pas- 
tures, and  is  a  very  sweet  songster.  It  builds  upon 
the  ground,  without  the  slightest  cover  or  protec- 
tion, and  also  roosts  there.  Walking  through  the 
fields  at  dusk,  I  frequently  start  them  up  almost 
beneath  my  feet.  When  disturbed  by  day,  they  fly 
with  a  quick,  sharp  movement,  showing  two  white 
quills  in  the  tail.  The  traveler  along  the  coun- 
try roads  disturbs  them  earthing  their  wings  in  the 
soft  dry  earth,  or  sees  them  skulking  and  flitting 
along  the  fences  in  front  of  him.  They  run  in 
the  furrow  in  advance  of  the  team,  or  perch  upon 
the  stones  a  few  rods  off.  They  sing  much  after 
sundown,  hence  the  aptness  of  the  name  vesper 
sparrow,  which  a  recent  writer,  Wilson  Flagg,  has 
bestowed  upon  them. 

In  the  meadows  and  low,  wet  lands  the  savanna 
sparrow  is  met  with,  and  may  be  known  by  its  fine, 
insect-like  song;  in  the  swamp,  the  swamp  sparrow. 

The  fox  sparrow,  the  largest  and  handsomest  spe- 
cies of  this  family,  comes  to  us  in  the  fall,  from 
the  North,  where  it  breeds.  Likewise  the  tree  or 
Canada  sparrow,  and  the  white-crowned  and  white- 
throated  sparrows. 


THE   INVITATION  213 

The  social  sparrow,  alias  "hairbird,"  alias  "red- 
headed chipping- bird, "  is  the  smallest  of  the  spar- 
rows, and,  I  believe,  the  only  one  that  builds  in 
trees. 

The  finches,  as  a  class,  all  have  short  conical 
bills,  with  tails  more  or  less  forked.  The  purple 
finch  heads  the  list  in  varied  musical  ability. 

Beside  the  groups  of  our  more  familiar  birds 
which  I  have  thus  hastily  outlined,  there  are  numer- 
ous other  groups,  more  limited  in  specimens  but 
comprising  some  of  our  best  known  songsters.  The 
bobolink,  for  instance,  has  properly  no  congener. 
The  famous  mockingbird  of  the  Southern  States 
belongs  to  a  genus  which  has  but  two  other  repre- 
sentatives in  the  Atlantic  States,  namely,  the  cat- 
bird and  the  long-tailed  or  ferruginous  thrush. 

The  wrens  are  a  large  and  interesting  family,  and 
as  songsters  are  noted  for  vivacity  and  volubility. 
The  more  common  species  are  the  house  wren,  the 
marsh  wren,  the  great  Carolina  wren,  and  the  winter 
wren,  the  latter  perhaps  deriving  its  name  from  the 
fact  that  it  breeds  in  the  North.  It  is  an  exquisite 
songster,  and  pours  forth  its  notes  so  rapidly,  and 
with  such  sylvan  sweetness  and  cadence,  that  it 
seems  to  go  off  like  a  musical  alarm. 

Wilson  called  the  kinglets  wrens,  but  they  have 
little  to  justify  the  name,  except  that  the  ruby- 
crown's  song  is  of  the  same  gushing,  lyrical  charac- 
ter as  that  referred  to  above.  Dr.  Brewer  was  en- 
tranced with  the  song  of  one  of  these  tiny  minstrels 
in  the  woods  of  New  Brunswick,  and  thought  he 


214  WAKE-ROBIN 

had  found  the  author  of  the  strain  in  the  black- poll 
warbler.  He  seems  loath  to  believe  that  a  bird  so 
small  as  either  of  the  kinglets  could  possess  such 
vocal  powers.  It  may  indeed  have  been  the  winter 
wren,  but  from  my  own  observation  I  believe  the 
ruby-crowned  kinglet  quite  capable  of  such  a  perform- 
ance. 

But  I  must  leave  this  part  -of  the  subject  and 
hasten  on.  As  to  works  on  ornithology,  Audu- 
bon's,  though  its  expense  puts  it  beyond  the  reach 
of  the  mass  of  readers,  is  by  far  the  most  full  and 
accurate.  His  drawings  surpass  all  others  in  accu- 
racy and  spirit,  while  his  enthusiasm  and  devotion 
to  the  work  he  had  undertaken  have  but  few  paral- 
lels in  the  history  of  science.  His  chapter  on  the 
wild  goose  is  as  good  as  a  poem.  One  readily  over- 
looks his  style,  which  is  often  verbose  and  affected, 
in  consideration  of  enthusiasm  so  genuine  and  pur- 
pose so  single. 

There  has  never  been  a  keener  eye  than  Audu- 
bon's,  though  there  have  been  more  discriminative 
ears.  Nuttall,  for  instance,  is  far  more  happy  in 
his  descriptions  of  the  songs  and  notes  of  birds,  and 
more  to  be  relied  upon.  Audubon  thinks  the  song 
of  the  Louisiana  water-thrush  equal  to  that  of  the 
European  nightingale,  and,  as  he  had  heard  both 
birds,  one  would  think  was  prepared  to  judge.  Yet 
he  has,  no  doubt,  overrated  the  one  and  underrated 
the  other.  The  song  of  the  water-thrush  is  very 
brief,  compared  with  the  philomel's,  and  its  quality 
is  brightness  and  vivacity,  while  that  of  the  latter 


THE   INVITATION  215 

bird,  if  the  books  are  to  be  credited,  is  melody  and 
harmony.  Again,  he  says  the  song  of  the  blue 
grosbeak  resembles  the  bobolink's,  which  it  does 
about  as  much  as  the  color  of  the  two  birds  resem- 
bles each  other;  one  is  black  and  white  and  the 
other  is  blue.  The  song  of  the  wood-wagtail,  he 
says,  consists  of  a  "short  succession  of  simple  notes 
beginning  with  emphasis  and  gradually  falling." 
The  truth  is  they  run  up  the  scale  instead  of  down, 
beginning  low  and  ending  in  a  shriek. 

Yet,  considering  the  extent  of  Audubon's  work, 
the  wonder  is  the  errors  are  so  few.  I  can  at  this 
moment  recall  but  one  observation  of  his,  the  con- 
trary of  which  I  have  proved  to  be  true.  In  his 
account  of  the  bobolink  he  makes  a  point  of  the  fact 
that,  in  returning  south  in  the  fall,  they  do  not 
travel  by  night  as  they  do  when  moving  north  in 
the  spring.  In  Washington  I  have  heard  their  calls 
as  they  flew  over  at  night  for  four  successive  au- 
tumns. As  he  devoted  the  whole  of  a  long  life  to 
the  subject,  and  figured  and  described  over  four 
hundred  species,  one  feels  a  real  triumph  on  finding 
in  our  common  woods  a  bird  not  described  in  his 
work.  I  have  seen  but  two.  Walking  in  the 
woods  one  day  in  early  fall,  in  the  vicinity  of  West 
Point,  I  started  up  a  thrush  that  was  sitting  on  the 
ground.  It  alighted  on  a  branch  a  few  yards  off, 
and  looked  new  to  me.  I  thought  I  had  never 
before  seen  so  long-legged  a  thrush.  I  shot  it,  and 
saw  that  it  was  a  new  acquaintance.  Its  peculiarities 
were  its  broad,  square  tail;  the  length  of  its  legs, 


216  WAKE-ROBIN 

which  were  three  and  three  quarters  inches  from 
the  end  of  the  middle  toe  to  the  hip- joint;  and  the 
deep  uniform  olive-brown  of  the  upper  parts,  and 
the  gray  of  the  lower.  It  proved  to  be  the  gray- 
cheeked  thrush,  named  and  first  described  by  Pro- 
fessor Baird.  But  little  seems  to  be  known  con- 
cerning it,  except  that  it  breeds  in  the  far  north, 
even  on  the  shores  of  the  Arctic  Ocean.  I  would 
go  a  good  way  to  hear  its  song. 

The  present  season  I  met  with  a  pair  of  them 
near  Washington,  as  mentioned  above.  In  size 
this  bird  approaches  the  wood  thrush,  being  larger 
than  either  the  hermit  or  the  veery;  unlike  all 
other  species,  no  part  of  its  plumage  has  a  tawny 
or  yellowish  tinge.  The  other  specimen  was  the 
northern  or  small  water-thrush,  cousin-german  to 
the  oven  -  bird  and  half  brother  to  the  Louisiana 
water-thrush  or  wagtail.  I  found  it  at  the  head  of 
a  remote  mountain  lake  among  the  sources  of  the 
Delaware,  where  it  evidently  had  a  nest.  It  usually 
breeds  much  farther  north.  It  has  a  strong,  clear 
warble,  which  at  once  suggests  the  song  of  its  con- 
gener. I  have  not  been  able  to  find  any  account  of 
this  particular  species  in  the  books,  though  it  seems 
to  be  well  known. 

More  recent  writers  and  explorers  have  added  to 
Audubon's  list  over  three  hundred  new  species,  the 
greater  number  of  which  belong  to  the  northern 
and  western  parts  of  the  continent.  Audubon's 
observations  were  confined  mainly  to  the  Atlantic 
and  Gulf  States  and  the  adjacent  islands;  hence  the 


THE   INVITATION  217 

Western  or  Pacific  birds  were  but  little  known  to 
him,  and  are  only  briefly  mentioned  in  his  works. 

It  is,  by  the  way,  a  little  remarkable  how  many 
of  the  Western  birds  seem  merely  duplicates  of  the 
Eastern.  Thus,  the  varied  thrush  of  the  West  is 
our  robin,  a  little  differently  marked;  and  the  red- 
shafted  woodpecker  is  our  golden- wing,  or  high- 
hole,  colored  red  instead  of  yellow.  There  is  also 
a  Western  chickadee,  a  Western  chewink,  a  West- 
ern blue  jay,  a  Western  meadowlark,  a  Western 
snowbird,  a  Western  bluebird,  a  Western  song  spar- 
row, Western  grouse,  quail,  hen-hawk,  etc. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  birds  of  the  West 
seems  to  be  a  species  of  skylark,  met  with  on  the 
plains  of  Dakota,  which  mounts  to  the  height  of 
three  or  four  hundred  feet,  and  showers  down  its 
ecstatic  notes.  It  is  evidently  akin  to  several  of 
our  Eastern  species. 

A  correspondent,  writing  to  me  from  the  country 
one  September,  said:  "I  have  observed  recently  a 
new  species  of  bird  here.  They  alight  upon  the 
buildings  and  fences  as  well  as  upon  the  ground. 
They  are  walkers."  In  a  few  days  he  obtained 
one,  and  sent  me  the  skin.  It  proved  to  be  what 
I  had  anticipated,  namely,  the  American  pipit,  or 
titlark,  a  slender  brown  bird,  about  the  size  of  the 
sparrow,  which  passes  through  the  States  in  the  fall 
and  spring,  to  and  from  its  breeding  haunts  in  the 
far  north.  They  generally  appear  by  twos  and 
threes,  or  in  small  loose  flocks,  searching  for  food 
on  banks  and  plowed  ground.  As  they  flv  nr>,  tl^y 


218  WAKE-ROBIN 

show  two  or  three  white  quills  in  the  tail,  like  the 
vesper  sparrow.  Flying  over,  they  utter  a  single 
chirp  or  cry  every  few  rods.  They  hreed  in  the 
bleak,  moss-covered  rocks  of  Labrador.  It  is  re- 
ported that  their  eggs  have  also  been  found  in  Ver- 
mont, and  I  feel  quite  certain  that  I  saw  this  bird 
in  the  Adirondack  Mountains  in  the  month  of 
August.  The  male  launches  into  the  air,  and  gives 
forth  a  brief  but  melodious  song,  after  the  manner 
of  all  larks.  They  are  walkers.  This  is  a  charac- 
teristic of  but  few  of  our  land-birds.  By  far  the 
greater  number  are  hoppers.  Note  the  track  of  the 
common  snowbird;  the  feet  are  not  placed  one  in 
front  of  the  other,  as  in  the  track  of  the  crow  or 
partridge,  but  side  and  side.  The  sparrows,  thrushes, 
warblers,  woodpeckers,  buntings,  etc.,  are  all  hop- 
pers. On  the  other  hand,  all  aquatic  or  semi-aquatic 
birds  are  walkers.  The  plovers  and  sandpipers  and 
snipes  run  rapidly.  Among  the  land-birds,  the 
grouse,  pigeons,  quails,  larks,  and  various  blackbirds 
walk.  The  swallows  walk,  also,  whenever  they  use 
their  feet  at  all,  but  very  awkwardly.  The  larks 
walk  with  ease  and  grace.  Note  the  meadowlark 
strutting  about  all  day  in  the  meadows. 

Besides  being  walkers,  the  larks,  or  birds  allied 
to  the  larks,  all  sing  upon  the  wing,  usually  poised  or 
circling  in  the  air,  with  a  hovering,  tremulous  flight. 
The  meadowlark  occasionally  does  this  in  the  early 
part  of  the  season.  At  such  times  its  long-drawn 
note  or  whistle  becomes  a  rich,  amorous  warble. 

The  bobolink,  also,  has  both  characteristics,  and, 


THE   INVITATION  219 

notwithstanding  the  difference  of  form  and  build, 
etc.,  is  very  suggestive  of  the  English  skylark,  as 
it  figures  in  the  books,  and  is,  no  doubt,  fully  its 
equal  as  a  songster. 

Of  our  small  wood-birds  we  have  three  varieties 
east  of  the  Mississippi,  closely  related  to  each  other, 
which  I  have  already  spoken  of,  and  which  walk, 
and  sing,  more  or  less,  on  the  wing,  namely,  the 
two  species  of  water-thrush  or  wagtails,  and  the 
oven-bird  or  wood- wagtail.  The  latter  is  the  most 
common,  and  few  observers  of  the  birds  can  have 
failed  to  notice  its  easy,  gliding  walk.  Its  other 
lark  trait,  namely,  singing  in  the  air,  seems  not  to 
have  been  observed  by  any  naturalist.  Yet  it  is 
a  well-established  characteristic,  and  may  be  verified 
by  any  person  who  will  spend  a  half  hour  in  the 
woods  where  this  bird  abounds  on  some  June  after- 
noon or  evening.  I  hear  it  very  frequently  after 
sundown,  when  the  ecstatic  singer  can  hardly  be 
distinguished  against  the  sky.  I  know  of  a  high, 
bald-top  mountain  where  I  have  sat  late  in  the  after- 
noon and  heard  them  as  often  as  one  every  minute. 
Sometimes  the  bird  would  be  far  below  me,  some- 
times near  at  hand;  and  very  frequently  the  singer 
would  be  hovering  a  hundred  feet  above  the  sum- 
mit. He  would  start  from  the  trees  on  one  side  of 
the  open  space,  reach  his  climax  in  the  air,  and 
plunge  down  on  the  other  side.  Its  descent  after 
the  song  is  finished  is  very  rapid,  and  precisely  like 
that  of  the  titlark  when  it  sweeps  down  from  its 
course  to  alight  on  the  ground. 


220  WAKIjl-ROBIN 

I  first  verified  this  observation  some  years  ago. 
I  had  long  been  familiar  with  the  soiig,  but  had 
only  strongly  suspected  the  author  of  it,  when,  as  I 
was  walking  in  the  woods  one  evening,  just'  as  the 
leaves  were  putting  out,  I  saw  one  of  these  birds 
but  a  few  rods  from  me.  I  was  saying  to  myself, 
half  audibly,  "Come,  now,  show  off,  if  it  is  you; 
I  have  come  to  the  woods  expressly  to  settle  this 
point,"  when  it  began  to  ascend,  by  short  hops  arid 
flights,  through  the  branches,  uttering  a  sharp,  pre- 
liminary chirp.  I  followed  it  with  my  eye;  saw 
it  mount  into  the  air  and  circle  over  the  woods ;  and 
saw  it  sweep  down  again  and  dive  through  the 
trees,  almost  to  the  very  perch  from  which  it  had 
started. 

As  the  paramount  question  in  the  life  of  a  bird 
is  the  question  of  food,  perhaps  the  most  serious 
troubles  our  feathered  neighbors  encounter  are  early 
in  the  spring,  after  the  supply  of  fat  with  which 
Nature  stores  every  corner  and  by-place  of  the  sys- 
tem, thereby  anticipating  the  scarcity  of  food,  has 
been  exhausted,  and  the  sudden  and  severe  changes 
in  the  weather  which  occur  at  this  season  make 
unusual  demands  upon  their  vitality.  No  doubt 
many  of  the  earlier  birds  die  from  starvation  and 
exposure  at  this  season.  Among  a  troop  of  Canada 
sparrows  which  I  came  upon  one  March  day,  all  of 
them  evidently  much  reduced,  one  was  so  feeble 
that  I  caught  it  in  my  hand. 

During  the  present  season,  a  very  severe  cold 
spell  the  first  week  in  March  drove  the  bluebirds 


THE   INVITATION  221 

to  seek  shelter  about  the  houses  and  outbuildings. 
As  night  approached,  and  the  winds  and  the  cold 
increased,  they  seemed  filled  with  apprehension  and 
alarm,  and  in  the  outskirts  of  the  city  came  about 
the  windows  and  doors,  crept  behind  the  blinds, 
clung  to  the  gutters  and  beneath  the  cornice,  flitted 
from  porch  to  porch,  and  from  house  to  house, 
seeking  in  vain  for  some  safe  retreat  from  the  cold. 
The  street  pump,  which  had  a  small  opening  just 
over  the  handle,  was  an  attraction  which  they  could 
not  resist.  And  yet  they  seemed  aware  of  the  in- 
security of  the  position;  for  no  sooner  would  they 
stow  themselves  away  into  the  interior  of  the  pump, 
to  the  number  of  six  or  eight,  than  they  would  rush 
out  again,  as  if  apprehensive  of  some  approaching 
danger.  Time  after  time  the  cavity  was  filled  and 
refilled, .  with  blue  and  brown  intermingled,  and  as 
often  emptied.  Presently  they  tarried  longer  than 
usual,  when  I  made  a  sudden  sally  and  captured 
three,  that  found  a  warmer  and  safer  lodging  for 
the  night  in  the  cellar. 

In  the  fall,  birds  and  fowls  of  all  kinds  become 
very  fat.  The  squirrels  and  mice  lay  by  a  supply 
of  food  in  their  dens  and  retreats,  but  the  birds,  to 
a  considerable  extent,  especially  our  winter  resi- 
dents, carry  an  equivalent  in  their  own  systems,  in 
the  form  of  adipose  tissue.  I  killed  a  red-shoul- 
dered hawk  one  December,  and  on  removing  the 
skin  found  the  body  completely  encased  in  a  coat- 
ing of  fat  one  quarter  of  an  inch  in  thickness. 
Not  a  particle  of  muscle  was  visible.  This  coating 


222  WAKE-ROBIN 

not  only  serves  as  a  protection  against  the  cold,  but 
supplies  the  waste  of  the  system  when  food  is  scarce 
or  fails  altogether. 

The  crows  at  this  season  are  in  the  same  condi- 
tion. It  is  estimated  that  a  crow  needs  at  least  half 
a  pound  of  meat  per  day,  but  it  is  evident  that  for 
weeks  and  months  during  the  winter  and  spring  they 
must  subsist  on  a  mere  fraction  of  this  amount.  I 
have  no  doubt  a  crow  or  hawk,  when  in  their  fall 
condition,  would  live  two  weeks  without  a  morsel 
of  food  passing  their  beaks;  a  domestic  fowl  will 
do  as  much.  One  January  I  unwittingly  shut  a 
hen  under  the  door  of  an  outbuilding,  where  not 
a  particle  of  food  could  be  obtained,  and  where 
she  was  entirely  unprotected  from  the  severe  cold. 
When  the  luckless  Dominick  was  discovered,  about 
eighteen  days  afterward,  she  was  brisk  and  lively, 
but  fearfully  pinched  up,  and  as  light  as  a  bunch  of 
feathers.  The  slightest  wind  carried  her  before  it. 
But  by  judicious  feeding  she  was  soon  restored. 

The  circumstance  of  the  bluebirds  being  embold- 
ened by  the  cold  suggests  the  fact  that  the  fear  of 
man,  which  now  seems  like  an  instinct  in  the  birds, 
is  evidently  an  acquired  trait,  and  foreign  to  them 
in  a  state  of  primitive  nature.  Every  gunner  has 
observed,  to  his  chagrin,  how  wild  the  pigeons 
become  after  a  few  days  of  firing  among  them;  and, 
to  his  delight,  how  easy  it  is  to  approach  near  his 
game  in  new  or  unfrequented  woods.  Professor 
Baird l  tells  me  that  a  correspondent  of  theirs  visited 
1  Then  at  the  head  of  the  Smithsonian  Institution. 


THE   INVITATION  223 

a  small  island  in  the  Pacific  Ocean,  situated  about 
two  hundred  miles  off  Cape  St.  Lucas,  to  procure 
specimens.  The  island  was  but  a  few  miles  in 
extent,  and  had  probably  never  been  visited  half  a 
dozen  times  by  human  beings.  The  naturalist  found 
the  birds  and  water-fo^ls  so  tame  that  it  was  but 
a  waste  of  ammunition  to  shoot  them.  Fixing  a 
noose  on  the  end  of  a  long  stick,  he  captured  them 
by  putting  it  over  their  necks  and  hauling  them  to 
him.  In  some  cases  not  even  this  contrivance  was 
needed.  A  species  of  mockingbird  in  particular, 
larger  than  ours  and  a  splendid  songster,  made 
itself  so  familiar  as  to  be  almost  a  nuisance,  hopping 
on  the  table  where  the  collector  was  writing,  and 
scattering  the  pens  and  paper.  Eighteen  species 
were  found,  twelve  of  them  peculiar  to  the  island. 

Thoreau  relates  that  in  the  woods  of  Maine  the 
Canada  jay  will  sometimes  make  its  meal  with  the 
lumbermen,  taking  the  food  out  of  their  hands. 

Yet,  notwithstanding  the  birds  have  come  to  look 
upon  man  as  their  natural  enemy,  there  can  be  little 
doubt  that  civilization  is  on  the  whole  favorable 
to  their  increase  and  perpetuity,  especially  to  the 
smaller  species.  With  man  come  flies  and  moths, 
and  insects  of  all  kinds  in  greater  abundance;  new 
plants  and  weeds  are  introduced,  and,  with  the 
clearing  up  of  the  country,  are  sowed  broadcast  over 
the  land. 

The  larks  and  snow  buntings  that  come  to  us 
from  the  north  subsist  almost  entirely  upon  the 
Beeds  of  grasses  and  plants;  and  how  many  of  our 


224  WAKE-ROBIN 

more  common  and  abundant  species  are  field-birds, 
and  entire  strangers  to  deep  forests  ? 

In  Europe  some  birds  have  become  almost  domes- 
ticated, like  the  house  sparrow;  and  in  our  own 
country  the  cliff  swallow  seems  to  have  entirely 
abandoned  ledges  and  shelving  rocks,  as  a  place  to 
nest,  for  the  eaves  and  projections  of  farm  and 
other  outbuildings. 

After  one  has  made  the  acquaintance  of  most  of 
the  land-birds,  there  remain  the  seashore  and  its 
treasures.  How  little  one  knows  of  the  aquatic 
fowls,  even  after  reading  carefully  the  best  authori- 
ties, was  recently  forced  home  to  my  mind  by  the 
following  circumstance:  I  was  spending  a  vacation 
in  the  interior  of  New  York,  when  one  day  a 
stranger  alighted  before  the  house,  and  with  a  cigar 
box  in  his  hand  approached  me  as  I  sat  in  the  door- 
way. I  was  about  to  say  that  he  would  waste  his 
time  in  recommending  his  cigars  to  me,  as  I  never 
smoked,  when  he  said  that,  hearing  I  knew  some- 
thing about  birds,  he  had  brought  me  one  which 
had  been  picked  up  a  few  hours  before  in  a  hay- 
field  near  the  village,  and  which  was  a  stranger  to 
all  who  had  seen  it.  As  he  began  to  undo  the  box 
I  expected  to  see  some  of  our  own  rarer  birds,  per- 
haps the  rose-breasted  grosbeak  or  Bohemian  chat- 
terer. Imagine,  then,  how  I  was  taken  aback  when 
I  beheld  instead  a  swallow- shaped  bird,  quite  as 
large  as  a  pigeon,  with  forked  tail,  glossy  black 
above  and  snow-white  beneath.  Its  parti- webbed 
feet,  and  its  long  graceful  wings,  at  a  glance  told 


THE   INVITATION  225 

that  it  was  a  sea-bird;  but  as  to  its  name  or  habitat 
I  must  defer  my  answer  till  I  could  get  a  peep  into 
Audubon,  or  some  large  collection. 

The  bird  had  fallen  down  exhausted  in  a  meadow, 
and  was  picked  up  just  as  the  life  was  leaving  its 
body.  The.  place  must  have  been  one  hundred  and 
fifty  miles  from  the  sea  as  the  bird  flies.  As  it 
was  the  sooty  tern,  which  inhabits  the  Florida  Keys, 
its  appearance  so  far  north  and  so  far  inland  may 
be  considered  somewhat  remarkable.  On  removing 
the  skin  I  found  it  terribly  emaciated.  It  had  no 
doubt  starved  to  death,  ruined  by  too  much  wing. 
Another  Icarus.  Its  great  power  of  flight  had  made 
it  bold  and  venturesome,  and  had  carried  it  so  far 
out  of  its  range  that  it  starved  before  it  could  return. 

The  sooty  tern  is  sometimes  called  the  sea-swal- 
low on  account  of  its  form  and  power  of  flight.  It 
will  fly  nearly  all  day  at  sea,  picking  up  food  from 
the  surface  of  the  water.  There  are  several  species 
of  terns,  some  of  them  strikingly  beautiful. 


INDEX 


Adirondacks,  the,  41 ;  camping  in, 

Alder,  20,  130. 

Alder  Creek,  177. 

Anemone,  146. 

Anemone,  grove,  147. 

Anemone,  Pennsylvania,  147. 

Apple,  128. 

Apricot,  128. 

Arbutus,  146, 147,  155. 

Ash,  swamp,  20. 

Audubon,  John  James,  22,  65,  67, 

107,  110,  124,  142,  150,  203,  207, 

211 ;  his  ornithological  work,  214- 

216. 
Autumn,  approach  and  arrival  of, 

34,35. 
Azalea,  155. 
Azalea,  pink,  12. 

Baird,  Prof.  Spencer  F.,  216,  222. 

Balsam  Lake,  161. 

Barnard,  Vincent,  117. 

Bats,  79. 

Bear,  black  ( Ursus  americanus),  91, 

Beaver  (Castor  fiber),  39. 

Beaver  Kill,  159-161. 

Beaverkill  Mountains,  97. 

Beech,  73, 157. 

Beech,  water,  20. 

Big  Ingin  River,  159. 

Birch,  black,  157,  172. 

Birch,  yellow,  68,  73,  76,  157. 

Birds,  coming  and  going  of  the,  2  ; 
spring  songs  of  songless,  7,  8  ;  in- 
fluence of  civilization  upon  their 
habits,  10,  11,  223,  224;  distribu- 
tion of,  18-21 ;  gradual  cessation 
of  song  in  summer,  30  ;  geograph- 
ical distribution  dependent  on  the 
climate,  38;  voices  of,  40;  hu- 
man significance  of  their  songs, 
41 ;  development  of  the  wings  in 
young,  62 ;  sanitary  system  among, 
98,  99  ;  second  marriages  among, 
100-102,  198;  women's  rights 


among,  102,  103;  plumage  in  its 
relation  to  concealment,  102, 
103  ;  order  of  migration  of, 
103  ;  irregularity  in  nesting  habits 
of,  106-109;  nests  for  second 
broods,  108;  location  of  nests 
with  a  view  to  safety,  108,  109 ; 
the  greatest  enemies  of,  109  ; 
their  confidence  in  man,  109, 
110,  138,  222-224  ;  in  the  city  of 
Washington,  109-111  ;  conceal- 
ment of  nests  in  the  woods,  111 ; 
a  classification  as  to  certain  nest- 
ing habits,  124,  125;  migrating 
at  night,  143, 144 ;  feeding  ranges 
of  various,  150;  blue,  191;  art 
in  protecting  their  nests,  193  ;  di- 
vision of  the  useful  and  the  or- 
namental qualities  between  the 
sexes,  193,  194 ;  excess  of  males 
among,  198 ;  delights  of  the 
study  of,  201-204 ;  books  on,  204, 
205,  214-216;  representatives  of 
the  principal  families  of,  205-214 ; 
Western  duplicates  of  Eastern, 
217;  walking  and  hopping,  218; 
the  food  question,  220-223 ;  pro- 
tected from  the  cold  by  fat,  221, 
222 ;  fear  of  man  an  acquired 
trait,  222,  223 ;  on  an  uninhabited 
island,  223  ;  of  the  seashore,  224, 
225. 

Birds  of  prey,  109. 

Blackberry,  20. 

Blackbird,  crow,  or  purple  grackle 
(Quiscalus  quiscula),  137 ;  chas- 
ing a  purple  finch,  138  ;  habits  of, 
138, 139  ;  notes  of,  137  ;  nest  of, 
107,  139. 

Blackbirds,  218. 

Bloodroot,  146,  147. 

Bloody-Moose  Pond,  73. 

Bluebird  (Sialia  sialis),  arrival  in 
spring,  1-3,  189,  190 ;  56,  103  n.; 
compared  with  the  English  robin, 

190,  191 ;  its  Western  congeners, 

191,  192 ;  nest-building,  194,  195i 


228 


INDEX 


usurping  a  wren's  nest,  1%,  197  ; 
a  female  loses  her  mate  and  finds 
a  new  one,  197,  198;  hostilities 
renewed  by  the  wrens,  198;  de- 
spair, 199  ;  seeking  shelter  in  cold 
weather,  220,  221 ;  notes  of,  2,  3, 
6,  7,  41,  129,  189-193 ;  nest  of, 
192-199. 

Bobolink  (Dolichonyx  oryzivorus), 
12,  30,  35;  migrating  through 
Washington,  143,  144,  215;  213; 
Audubon  on  the  migrations  of, 
215 ;  218 ;  notes  of,  26, 30,  41,  143, 
215,  218,  219. 

IJoreas  River,  71. 

Brewer,  Dr.  Thomas  M.,  213. 

Bullfrog  (Rana  catesbiana),  172, 
182. 

Bunting,  black-throated,  or  dickcis- 
sel  (Spiza  americana),  144  ;  notes 
of,  144. 

Bunting,  snow  (Plectrophenax  ni- 
valis),  223. 

Buttercup,  146. 

Butterfly,  137. 

Buzzard,  turkey,  or  turkey  vulture 
(Cathartes  aura),  129,  131 ;  habits 
of,  132,  133 ;  a  roost,  133,  134. 

Cabbage,  skunk,  146. 

Callikoon,  161,  169. 

Cardinal.    See  Grosbeak,  cardinal. 

Catbird  (Galeoscoptes  carolinensis), 
24 ;  habits  of,  26,  27  ;  adventure 
with  a  black  snake,  27-30 ;  142, 
152,  213  ;  notes  of,  26,  27, 41 ;  nest 
of,  27-30. 

Catskill  Mountains,  camping  in, 
157-187. 

Cattle  in  the  woods,  171, 172,  178, 
183. 

Cave,  a  visit  to  a,  72. 

Cedar,  20. 

Cedar-bird,  or  Cedar  waxwing 
(Ampelis  cedrorum),  40;  catch- 
ing flies,  83,  84 ;  as  cherry-eaters, 
139,  140  ;  nest  of,  93-95, 140. 

Chat,  yellow-breasted  (Icteria  vi- 
rews),  habits  and  appearance  of, 
152,  153 ;  notes  of,  152, 153. 

Cherry,  wild,  90. 

Chestnut,  20,  155. 

Chewink,  or  towhee  (Pipilo  ery- 
throphthalmus),  19,  25,  136. 

Chickadee  (Parus  atricapillus),  83 ; 
a  brood  of  young,  105 ;  nest  of, 
103-105. 

Claytonia,  or  spring  beauty,  146, 
148. 

Corydalis,  146. 


Cow  bunting,  or  cowbird  (Molothna 
ater),  8  ;  breeding  habits  of,  58- 
60;  114,115;  notes  of ,  8. 

Creeper,  brown  (Certhia  familiaris 
americ(ina),  136. 

Cricket,  30. 

Crow,  American  (Corvus  ameri- 
canus),  42,  130,  218 ;  in  winter, 
131,  132,  222  ;  amount  of  food  re- 
quired by,  222. 

Cuckoo,  58,  103  n.,  107. 

Cuckoo,  black-billed  (Coccyzus  ery~ 
throphthalmus,  12-14 ;  notes  of, 
12,  13. 

Cuckoo,  European,  Wordsworth's 
lines  to,  12,  13  ;  58. 

Cuckoo,  yellow-billed  (Coccyzus 
americanus),  13 ;  notes  of,  13. 

Dandelion,  1. 

Deer,  Virginia  (Cariacus  Virginia* 
nus),  floating  for,  73-82  ;  91,  160. 

Delaware  River,  head-waters  of,  38, 
157,  159. 

Dickcissel.  See  Bunting,  black- 
throated. 

Dog,  a  wild,  137. 

Dogwood,  20,  155. 

Dove,  turtle,  or  mourning  dove 
(Zenaidura  macroura),  19;  nest 
of,  122. 

Dry  Brook,  159,  169,  170. 

Duck,  wood  (Aix  sponsa),  204. 

Eagle,  bald  (Haliceetus  leucocepha- 

lus),  nest  of,  124. 
Eagle,  golden  (Aquila  chrysaetoi), 

123,  124  ;  nest  of,  124.      ' 
Esopus,  157, 159. 

Finch,  grass.    See  Sparrow,  field. 

Finch,  pine,  or  pine  siskin  (Spinus 
pinus),  70,  84. 

Finch,  purple,  or  linnet  (Carpoda- 
cus  purpureus),  56,  57,  70,  136, 
138 ;  notes  of,  56, 57,  213. 

Finches,  characteristics  of  the  fam- 
ily, and  of  certain  species,  211- 
213. 

Fishing,  a  good  catch,  71, 72. 

Flagg,  Wilson,  212. 

Flicker.  See  Woodpecker,  golden- 
winged. 

Flowers,  wild,  in  Washington  in 
winter,  128  ;  in  spring  near  Wash- 
ington, 146-148. 

Flycatcher,  great  crested  (Myiar- 
chus  crinitus),  20,  210 ;  nest  of, 
122. 

Flycatcher,  green-crested,  or  green* 


INDEX 


229 


crested    pewee    (Empidonax  vi- 

rescens),  210 ;  nest  of,  122. 
Flycatcher,  white-eyed.    See  Vireo, 

white-eyed. 
Flycatchers,  characteristics  of,  49, 

50 ;    as   nest-builders,   122  ;  150 ; 

characteristics  of  the  family,  and 

of  certain  species,  209,  210. 
Fox,  gray  (Urocyon  cinereo-argen- 

talus),  38. 
Fox,  red  (Vulpes  vulpes,  var.  ful- 

vus),  39  ;  track  of,  49  ;  104. 
Frogs,  128,  130 ;  spawn  of,  130, 137  ; 

172,  173,  182.   See  Bullfrog  and 

Hyla. 

Gentian,  closed,  74. 

Gnatcatcher,  blue-gray  (PolioptUa 
ccerulea),  149-151  ;  notes  of,  150, 
151 ;  nest  of,  116. 

Goldfinch,  American,  or  yellow-bird 
(Spinuslristis).  arrival  of,  12  ;  32, 
56,  136,  206  ;  nest  of,  94. 

Grackle,  purple.  See  Blackbird, 
crow. 

Grape,  frost,  20. 

Grasshoppers,  large,  127. 

Great  Egg  Harbor,  124. 

Grosbeak,  blue  (Guiraca  ccerulea), 
102,  110 ;  resemblance  to  the  in- 
digo-bird, 111 ;  notes  of,  110,  111, 
215 ;  nest  of,  102,  110. 

Grosbeak,  cardinal,  or  Virginia  red- 
bird,  or  cardinal  (Cardinalis  car- 
dinalis),  153,  154  ;  notes  of,  153, 
154. 

Grosbeak,  rose-breasted  (Habia  lu- 
doviciana),  55  ;  notes  of,  55. 

Grosbeaks,  songs  of,  142. 

Grouse,  218. 

Grouse,  ruffed.    See  Partridge. 

Guides,  in  the  Adirondacks,  71,  72  ; 
in  the  Catskills,  162-165. 

Hairbird.    See  Sparrow,  social. 
Hare,    northern    (Lepus    america- 

nus),  39,  82. 
Hawk,   fish,    or    American    osprey 

(Pundion  haliaetus  carolinensis), 

conduct  of  a  stepfather,  100,  101 ; 

nest  of,  100, 107. 
Hawk,  hen,  soaring  of,  33,  34. 
Hawk,   pigeon,    pursuing    a    small 

bird,  32 ;  73. 
Hawk,   red-shouldered  (Buteo  lin- 

eatus},  221. 
Hawk,  red-tailed  (Buteo  borealis), 

104,  114 ;  nest  of,  114. 
Hawk,  sharp-shinned  (Acdpiter  ve- 

loz),  91. 


Hawks,  86,  99. 

Hazel,  20. 

Hemlock,  39,  68, 157,  158. 

Hen,  domestic,  8,  128,  222. 

Hepatica,  or  liver-leaf,  or  liverwort, 
128, 146. 

Heron,  great  blue  (Ardea  hero' 
dias),  74. 

Herons,  107. 

Hewett's,  in  the  Adirondacks,  69-71. 

High-hole.  See  Woodpecker,  golden- 
winged. 

Honeysuckle,  swamp,  164. 

Houstonia,  128,  137,  146,  148. 

Hummingbird,  ruby-throated  (Tro- 
chilus  colubris),  54,  55,  85,  115, 
116 :  notes  of,  85 ;  nest  of,  5,  115, 
116. 

Hunter,  an  Americanized  Irishman. 
87,  88,  91. 

Hyla,  137. 

Hyla,  Pickering's,  or  peeping  frog 
(Hyla  pickeringii),  11. 

Indian  Pass,  88,  90. 

Indigo-bird  (Passerina  cyanea),  56 ; 
its  resemblance  to  the  blue  gros- 
beak, 111;  notes  of,  108,  111; 
nest  of,  108. 

Iron  ore,  89. 

Jacking  for  deer,  77-82. 

Jay,  blue  (Cyanocitta  cristata),  86, 

103  n.,  181 ;  notes  of,  181 ;  nest  of, 

107. 
Jay,  Canada  (Perisoreus  canaden- 

sis),  223. 
July,  bird  music  gradually  ceasing 

in,  30. 
June,  an  important  month  with  or* 

nithologists,  40. 

Kingbird  (Tyrannus  tyrannus),  5; 

arrival  of,  12  ;  49,  50,  103  n.,  142, 

210 ;  notes  of,  5, 167 ;  nest  of,  122. 
Kinglet,  golden-crowned   (Regulus 

mtrapa),  136. 
Kinglet,     ruby-crowned     (Regulus 

calendula),  notes  of,  141,  142,  213, 

214. 
Kinglets,  213. 

Lady's-slipper,  yellow,  148.  • 

Lake,  a  search  for  a,  162-187. 

Lake  Henderson,  89,  90. 

Lakes,  wildness  of  mountain,  74,  75. 

Lake  Sandford,  84,  86,  90. 

Lark,  shore,  or  horned  lark  (Olo- 

coris   alpeslris),    135,    218,    223  j 

notes  of,  135. 


230 


INDEX 


Larks  and  their  allies,  characteris- 
tics of,  218. 
Laurel,  20,  155. 
Liver-leaf.    See  Hepatica. 
Liverwort.    See  Hepatica. 
Lower  Iron  Works,  84-86. 
Lupine,  or  sun-dial,  147. 

Mandrake,  147. 
Maple,  73,  157. 
Maple,  sugar,  190. 
Maple-sugar  making,  190. 
March,  at  Washington,  128. 
Martin,  purple  (Progne  subis),  141. 
May,  the  month  of    swallows  and 

orioles,  11 ;  the  transition  month, 

11. 
Meadowlark      (Sturnella    magna), 

218;  notes  of,  8,  11, 129. 
Merganser,  red-breasted   (Mergan- 
ser serrator),  a  brood  of,  90. 
Mice,  221. 

Midges,  or  no-see-ems,  166,  167. 
Mill  Brook,  159, 162. 
Mockingbird  (Mimus   polyglottos), 

213 ;  notes  of,  21,  22. 
Mockingbird,    another    species   of, 

223. 
Moose  (Alee  alces,  var.  americanus), 

92. 

Morning  in  camp,  82. 
Mount  Golden,  85. 
Mount  Marcy,  85. 
Mount  Mclntyre,  85. 
Muskrat,  or  musquash  (Fiber  zibe- 

thicus),  74,  78. 

Nate's  Pond,  74-84. 
Neversink  River,  159. 
Nightingale,  song  of,  214. 
Nuthatch  (Sitta),  notes  of,  7,  73 ; 

nest  of,  103,  104. 
Nuttall,  Thomas,  22, 118,  214. 

Oak,  155. 

Orchis,  great  purple,  68. 

Oriole,  Baltimore  (Icterus  galbula), 
11,  103  n.;  domestic  troubles,  118- 
120  ;  nest  of,  107, 116-120. 

Oriole,  orchard.  See  Starling,  or- 
chard. 

Ornithology,  delights  of  the  study, 
201-204;  books  on,  204,  205,  214- 
216. 

Osprey.    See  Hawk,  fish. 

Owl,  screech  (Megascops  asio),  a 
brood  of  young,  51 ;  dichroina- 
tism  of,  52. 

Owls,  8,  79. 


Panther,  American  (Felis  concolor), 
92. 

Partridge,  or  ruffed  grouse  (Bonasa 
wtibellus),  with  a  brood  of  young, 
62,  63,  184  ;  habits  of,  63,  64 ;  73, 
86,  90,  91,  179,  180,  218 ;  drum- 
ming of,  8,  11,  63,  64,  167,  182; 
notes  of,  62,  63,  184 ;  nest  of,  15, 
109. 

Pepacton  River,  159. 

Perch,  84. 

Perch,  white  (Morone  americana), 
90. 

Perch,  yellow   (Perca  flavescens), 

Persimmon-tree,  204. 
Pewee.    See  Phoebe-bird. 
Pewee,    green-crested.     See     Fly- 
catcher, green-crested. 
Pewee,    wood    (Contopus    virens), 

61,  103  n. ;  notes  of,  49,  50,  210 ; 

nest  of,  122,  210. 
Phoebe-bird,    or    pewee  (Sayornis 

phcebe),  arrival  of,  6 ;   195,  210 ; 

notes  of,  6;  nest  of,  50,  51,  120, 

121,  210. 
Pickerel,  90. 
Pigeon,  wild,  or  passenger  pigeon 

(Ectopistes  migratorius),  86,   91, 

160,  222  ;  nest  of,  122,  160. 
Pigeons,  99,  218. 
Pine,  73. 
Piny  Branch,  walks  in  the  region  of, 

145-154. 
Pipit,  American,  or  titlark  (Anthus 

pensilvanicus),  217-219 ;  notes  of, 

218 ;  nest  of,  218. 
Pitcher-plant,  74. 
Plovers,  218. 
Poplar,  silver,  131. 
Porcupine,    Canada,    or    hedgehog 

(Erethizon  dorsatus),  166. 
Potentilla,  146. 

Quail,  or  bob-white  (Colinus  virgin- 
ianus),  19,  218 ;  notes  of,  8. 

Rabbit,  gray  (Lepus  sylvaticus),  38. 
Raccoon    or  coon  (Procyon  lotor), 

39. 

Raspberry,  red,  90. 
Red-bird,  summer,  or  summer  tan- 

ager  (Piranga  rubra),  56. 
Red-bird,  Virginia.    See  Grosbeak, 

cardinal. 
Redstart  (Setophaga  ruticilla),  19, 

149,  206. 
Robin  (Merula  migratorid),  arrival 

of,  3 ;  habits  of,  4,  24 ;  7,  71,  99; 


INDEX 


231 


courtship  of,  101,  102;  142,  181, 
211 ;  notes  of,  3-5,  41,  129,  142. 
177,  211 ;  nest  of,  5,  106,  108. 
Bock  Greek,  rambles  about,  144-154, 
204. 

Sandford  Lake,  84,  86,  90. 

Sandpiper,  a  young,  62. 

Sandpiper,  solitary  (Totanus  soli- 
tarius),  85. 

Sandpipers,  144,  218. 

Saxifrage,  146. 

Smilax,  20. 

Snake,  black,  attacking  a  catbird's 
nest,  27-30;  boy  surprised  by  a, 
193. 

Snipes,  218. 

Snowbird,  or  slate-colored  junco 
(Junco  hyemalis),  42,  59,  69,  144, 
218  ;  notes  of,  8,  42, 129  ;  nest  of, 
42, 109. 

Sparrow,  bush.  See  Sparrow,  wood. 

Sparrow,  Canada,  or  tree  sparrow, 
(Spizella  monticold).  136,  212, 
220 ;  notes  of,  137. 

Sparrow,  English.  See  Sparrow, 
house. 

Sparrow,  field,  or  vesper  sparrow, 
or  grass  finch  (Pooccetes  grami- 
neus),  14,  70, 136 ;  habits  and  ap- 
pearance of,  212  ;  notes  of,  12, 14, 
15,  212;  nest  of,  15,  212.  See, 
also,  Sparrow,  wood. 

Sparrow,  fox,  (Passerella  Hiaca), 
21,  136,  212 ;  notes  of,  142. 

Sparrow,  house,  or  English  (Passer 
domesticus),  224. 

Sparrow,  savanna  (Ammodramus 
sandwichensis  savanna),  212 ; 
notes  of,  212. 

Sparrow,  social,  or  chipping  spar- 
row, or  chippie,  or  hairbird  (Spi- 
zella socialis),  chasing  a  moth, 
31 ;  213 ;  notes  of,  8, 167 ;  nest  of, 
106,  213. 

•Sparrow,  song  (Melospiza  fasciata), 
1 ;  arrival  of,  11 ;  136 ;  notes  of, 
6,  11,  41,  129,  211,  212 ;  nest  of, 
106. 

Sparrow,  swamp  (Melospiza  geor- 
giana),  136,  212. 

Sparrow,  tree.  See  Sparrow,  Can- 
ada. 

Sparrow,  vesper.  See  Sparrow, 
field. 

Sparrow,  white-crowned  (Zonotri- 
chia  leucophrys),  136,  142,  212. 

Sparrow,  white-throated  (Zonotri- 
chia  albicollis),  70,  136,  142,  212 ; 
notes  of,  70. 


Sparrow,  wood,  or  bush  sparrow,  or 

field  sparrow,  (Spizella  pusilla), 

16, 19 ;  notes  of,  16. 
Sparrows,  103  n.,  218. 
Spice-bush,  20. 

Spring,  its  duration  in  the  North,  1. 
Spring  beauty.     See  Claytonia. 
Squirrel,  black  (Sciurus  carolinen- 

sis,  var.  leucotis),  43. 
Squirrel,  gray  (Sciurus  carolinen- 

sis,  var.  leucotis),  43. 
Squirrel   red  (Sciurus  hudsonicus), 

43,  73. 

Squirrels,  221. 
Starling,  orchard,  or  orchard  oriole 

(Icterus  spurius),  103  n.;  notes  of, 

142 ;  nest  of ,  116. 
Sucker,  white,  161. 
Sun-dial.    See  Lupine. 
Sunfish,  84,  178,  179. 
Swallow,  barn  (Chelidon  erythro- 

gaster),  141 ;  nest  of,  106. 
Swallow,  chimney,  or  chimney  swift 

(Chcetura pelagica),  141 ;  nest  of, 

106. 
Swallow,  cliff  (Petrochelidon  luni- 

frons),  141,  195 ;    notes  of,  141, 

195  ;  nest  of,  195,  224. 
Swallow,  rough-winged  (Stelgidop- 

teryx  serripennis),  nest  of,  106. 
Swallows,  1,  8, 11,  99, 140,  218. 

Tanager,  scarlet  (Piranga  erythro- 
melas),  arrival  of,  12;  55,  56; 
notes  of,  30,  56, 142. 

Tanager,  summer.  See  Red-bird, 
summer. 

Tern,  sooty  (Sterna  fuliginosa), 
224,225. 

Terns,  225. 

Thomas's  Lake,  a  trouting  excursion 
to,  162-187. 

Thoreau,  Henry  D.,  37,  53,  69,  91, 
223. 

Thrush,  golden-crowned,  or  wood- 
wagtail,  or  oven-bird  (Seiurus 
aurocapillus),  52,  53,  151,  219, 
220 ;  notes  of,  52, 53, 167,  215,  219, 
220. 

Thrush,  gray-cheeked  (Turdus  ali- 
cite),  40, 204,  215,  216. 

Thrush,  hermit  (Turdus  aonasch- 
k(E  pallasii),  18,  19,  44,  84,  148, 
211  ;  notes  of,  21-23,  41,  46-48, 
55,  68,  211. 

Thrush,  olive-backed,  or  Swainson's 
thrush  (Turdus  ustulatus  swain- 
sonii),  148,  211. 

Thrush,  red,  or  mavis,  or  ferrugi- 
nous thrush,  or  brown  thrasher 


232 


INDEX 


(Harporhynchus  rufus),  24,  213; 
iiest  of,  122. 

Thrush,  varied  (Hesperoctehla  nce- 
via),  217. 

Thrush,  Wilson's.    See  Veery. 

Thrush,  wood  (Turdus  mustelinus), 
1,  19 ;  habits  of,  21-25  ;  30,  44, 
47,  148 ;  distribution  In  the  Cats- 
kills,  168,  211 ;  notes  of,  21-24, 
148,  164,  167,  168,  211 ;  nest  of, 
21,  25,  164. 

Thrushes,  songs  of  certain,  142; 
feed  mostly  on  or  near  the  ground, 
150 ;  characteristics  of  the  family, 
and  of  certain  species,  211 ;  hop- 
pers, 218. 

Titlark.    See  Pipit,  American. 

Titmouse,  gray-crested,  or  tufted 
titmouse  (Farm  bicolor),  notes 
of,  7. 

Tracks,  in  the  mud,  48,  49. 

Trout,  brook  (Salvelinus  fontina- 
lis),  71,  72,  84,  160. 

Trouting  excursions,  162-187. 

Turkey,  domestic,  101. 

Turkey,  wild  (Meleagris  gallopavo), 
101. 

Upper  Iron  Works,  86-90. 

Veery,  or  Wilson's  thrush  ( Turdus 
fuscescens),  19,  44,  47,  141,  148, 
211 ;  notes  of,  21,  25,  26,  44,  109, 

Vetch,  146. 

Village,  a  deserted,  86-89. 

Violet,  bird's-foot,  146,  147. 

Violet,  dog's-tooth,  1, 155. 

Violets,  128,  146. 

Vireo,  red-eyed  (Vireo  olivaceus), 
habits  of,  40-42 ;  61,  208,  209 ;  a 
young  one  caught  napping,  209 ; 
notes  of,  40-42,  208, 209  ;  nest  of, 
114,  208. 

Vireo,  solitary,  or  blue-headed  vi- 
reo  (Vireo  solitarius),  67,  112, 
208 ;  notes  of,  67,  112 ;  nest  of, 
112,  113,  208. 

Vireo,  warbling  (Vireo  gilvus),  41, 
208 ;  notes  of,  42. 

Vireo,  white-eyed,  or  white-eyed 
flycatcher  ( Vireo  noveboracensis), 
16-19,  208 ;  notes  of,  16,  17,  41, 
208. 

Vireo,  yellow-throated,  or  yellow- 
breasted  flycatcher  (Vireo  flavi- 
frons),  19,  208. 

Vireos,  150 ;  characteristics  of  the 
family,  and  of  individuals,  208, 


Wagtail.  See  Water-thrush  and 
Thrush,  golden-crowned. 

Wake-robin,  1. 

Walking  and  hopping,  218. 

Warbler,  Audubon's  (Dendroica 
auduboni),  71. 

Warbler,  bay-breasted  (Dendroica 
castanea),  141,  149. 

Warbler,  black  and  white  (Mniotilta 
varia),  a  brood  of  young,  111, 
112  ;  149,  206 ;  notes  of,  67  ;  nest 
of,  111,  112. 

Warbler,  black  and  yellow,  or  mag- 
nolia warbler  (Dendroica  macu- 
losa),  19,  60. 

Warbler,  Blackburnian  (Dendroica 
blackburnice),  45,  60,  149  ;  notes 
of,  45,  149. 

Warbler,  black-poll  (Dendroica 
striatd),  141,  206,  207. 

Warbler,  black-throated  blue,  or 
blue-backed  warbler  (Dendroica 
ccerulescens),  19 ;  habits  and  ap- 
pearance of,  66,  67  ;  71, 150 ;  notes 
of,  66,  67. 

Warbler,  black-throated  green,  or 
green-backed  warbler  (Dendroica 
virens),  19,  59,  66 ;  notes  of,  66, 
207. 

Warbler,  blue-winged  (Helmintho- 


rarbler,    blue    yellow-backed,    or 

parula    warbler    (Compsolhlypis 

americana),    46,  149,  201 ;  notes 

of,  46,  149. 
Warbler,  Canada  (Sylvania   cana- 

densis],  18,  57 ;  appearance    and 

habits  of,  60,  61 ;  71 ;  notes  of,  57, 

60  ;  nest  of,  57,  58,  61. 
Warbler,  cerulean  (Dendroica  cceru- 

lea),  207. 
Warbler,  chestnut-sided  (Dendroica 

pensylvanica),   19,    60,    66,   149; 

notes  of,  66,  149  ;  nest  of,  66. 
Warbler,    hooded    (Sylvania    mi- 

trata),  19,  206. 
Warbler,  Kentucky  (Qeothlypis  for- 

mosd),  habits  and  appearance  of, 

149,  150  ;  206 ;  notes  of,  149. 
Warbler,      mourning      (Geothlypis 

Philadelphia),  65,  150,  206,  207  ; 

notes  of,  65  ;  nest  of,  113,  114. 
Warbler,      Swainson's     (Helinaia 

swainsonii),  207. 
Warbler,    worm-eating    (Helmithe- 

rus  vermivorus),  19,  21,  149,  150. 
Warbler,    yellow    (Dendroica    ces- 

tiva),  140,  206 ;  notes  of,  140  ;  nest 

of,  140. 
Warbler,  yellow  red-poll,  or  yello* 


INDEX 


233 


palm  warbler  (Dendroica  palma- 
rum  hypochrysea),  141. 

Warbler,  yellow-ruinped,  or  myrtle 
warbler  (Dendroica  coronata),  71. 
136,  207. 

Warblers,  colors  of  their  legs,  65 ; 
migrating  through  Washington, 
143,  144,  148,  149 ;  feeding  ranges 
of,  150;  remarks  on  the  family 
and  its  representatives,  205-207 ; 
hoppers,  218. 

Washington,  D.  C.,  birds  in,  109- 
111;  127-156. 

Water-cress,  146, 147. 

Water-fowl,  99,  101, 107,  223. 

Water-thrush,  Louisiana,  or  large- 
billed  (Seiurus  motacilla),  19, 
151,  219  ;  notes  of,  151,  181,  214. 

Water-thrush,  Northern  (Seiurus 
noveboracensis).  151,  180,  181, 
216,  219 ;  notes  of,  180,  181,  216 ; 
nest  of,  180. 

Wilson,  Alexander,  22,  65, 124,  203, 
213. 

Wintergreen,  false,  54. 

Woodchuck  (Arctomys  monax),  177, 
178. 

Woodpecker,  downy  (Dryobates 
pubescens),  drumming  of,  9  ;  nest 
of,  96,  97. 

Woodpecker,  golden-winged,  or 
high-hole,  or  flicker,  or  yarup,  or 
yellow-hammer  (Colaptes  aura- 
tus),  arrival  of,  7  ;  habits  of,  9, 10  ; 
notes  of,  7,  9,  10,  129. 

Woodpecker,  red-headed  (Melaner- 


pes  erythrocephalus).  154 ;  notes 
of,  154 ;  nest  of,  95. 

Woodpecker,  red-shafted,  or  red- 
shafted  flicker  (Colaptes  cafer). 
217. 

Woodpecker,  yellow-bellied,  or  yel- 
low-bellied sapsucker  (Sphyrapi- 
cus  varius),  waiting  on  its  young, 
97,  98;  99-101,  182;  nest  of,  97- 
100. 

Woodpeckers,  nests  of,  96,  103; 
drumming  of,  181,  182;  hoppers, 
218. 

Wood-wagtail.  See  Thrush,  golden- 
crowned. 

Wren,  Carolina  (Thryothorus  ludo- 
vicianus),  136,  213. 

Wren,  house  (Troglodytes  aMon), 
difficulty  with  a  pair  of  bluebirds, 
195-198,  213;  notes  of,  196-198: 
nest  106,  107. 

Wren,  ruby-crowned.  See  Kiuglefe, 
ruby-crowned. 

Wren,  winter  (Troglodytes  hiema- 
lis),  2,  18  ;  habits  of,  43,  44 ;  213 ; 
notes  of,  18,  43,  44,  177,  213. 

Wrens,  characteristics  of  the  fam- 
ily, and  of  certain  species,  213. 

Yarup.  See  Woodpecker,  golden- 
winged. 

Yellow-hammer.  See  Woodpecker, 
golden -winged. 

Yellow-throat,  Maryland  (Geothly- 
pis  trichas),  19,  61,  150,  206; 
notes  of,  61. 


(OTbc  fitoertfbe 

Electrotyped  and  printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  <&»  C« 
Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.  A. 


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